In Your Arms
by LadyOfThieves
Summary: Why has Tristran got 'a taste for killing? What if he had once dared to fall in love?
1. A Voice in the Dark

**Disclaimer** – I own nothing, save for Alennia and any other characters of my invention I choose to insert into future chapters

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Alennia trudged slowly up the mountainside. The wind blew stinging drop of water into her face, and she was not only soaked but also freezing. Squinting up at the scarcely visible sky, she reckoned she must have been walking for almost ten hours. It was beginning to get dark, the weather showed no signs of easing off, and Alennia began to worry about the night. It was not the first time she had been up in the mountains: her brother used to take her a lot. But that was before the Saxon raid. Before she had seen her family cut down in front of her eyes from her hiding place in the trees. Now she was alone, it was growing dark, and she began to wonder whether it would not be easier to simply lat down and let death come to her.

"Lovely day isn't it?" Alennia heard what she felt to be a disgustingly cheerful voice from behind her. She turned to see a man of about twenty sitting easily on a docile seeming horse, watching her.

He had dark hair that hung in matted braids around his face, with feathers and threads plaited in. On his cheeks were the tattoos of arrowheads, and his rakish dark eyes were turned on her, directing a charming, easy manner upon her.

Alennia scowled at the intruder upon her morbid thoughts and turned away, continuing down the slope.

"Oh come now!" the man said. "That's no way to treat a stranger."

Alennia said nothing, childishly hoping he would go away and leave her to die.

"What's a pretty young thing like you doing up in this Godforsaken place all alone then?" the man continued in his now familiar dashingly charming manner.

This finally stung Alennia into replying. "Trying to escape from irritating things such as you!" she flung back at him.

"Ah so you do have a voice!" the man said in the most aggravating way possible. "I do not see why you keep silent for so long, since your voice brings me to my knees!"

"Well perhaps I will have the chance to get away from you since you are unable to walk!" Alennia replied, unable to resist the temptation of throwing the insult back at him.

The man laughed, exasperating Alennia even more.

"Will you not leave me alone?" she asked.

"Would I be do discourteous as to leave a young lady on a mountainside with night drawing in?" he replied in his easy drawl.

"No, but you'd be so discourteous as to insult me!"

"And for that I humbly beg your pardon," he replied with another of those reckless, charming smiles that both irritated and intrigued Alennia.

"Are you heading for the pass?" he asked, the tone in his voice changing. The persuasive charm had been dropped, and Alennia was hearing the closest thing he had to sincerity.

"What if I am?" she asked, albeit slightly tartly.

"You'll never make it through."

"And who are you to judge whether I'll make it through or not?"

A deep chuckle was emitted from the man's throat, and when he next spoke it was in an apologetic, if amused, voice. "Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to insult you. I simply meant that no one would make the pass in this weather. The winds would blow a grown man off his feet, and if you manage to crawl, the cold would freeze you."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Alennia asked sharply. "Freeze here instead?"

Again came the amused laugh. "I would show you somewhere where you would not freeze," he commented.

Alennia stopped and turned to face him. The wind whipped her hair in front of her face and blew on her wet dress, sending shivers down her spine.

"You know of such a place?" she asked hesitantly.

The man on the horse nodded. "A cave. Not far from here. Warm and dry, with provisions enough for months."

"And you would take me there?"

"Lady, it would be a pleasure," he bowed in his saddle, the gallant exterior returning.

Alennia eyed him critically for a moment. He was offering her life where she saw nothing but death, but at what price would the life come?

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly.

"My Lady?" he asked, thrown slightly by the question.

"You speak my language, and yet there is something about you that is not of my kind. You are not a Woad, although you speak and act like one. You cannot be a Roman for your looks are not of Rome. It is possible you are a Briton, but what reason would a Briton have for wandering the mountains of Woad country in the midst of a gale? Who are you?"

"Lady, I am neither Briton nor Woad nor, and I thank the Gods, Roman."

"Why should I trust you?" she asked.

"You have no reason to trust me," he answered simply. "Just as I have no reason to trust you. I think perhaps, we shall have to learn to trust each other."

Alennia surveyed him for a moment, and then a strong gust of wind blew, almost knocking her backwards by the force of it, and leaving her trembling in the cold. She sighed deeply and shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps we shall," she agreed.

"You'll come?"

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Alennia… And you, my saviour?" she mocked him gently.

He smiled, acknowledging her teasing. "My name is Tristan."

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**A/N** – What do you think? Should I continue? Please R&R! 


	2. For the Joy of Fighting

Alennia was almost exhausted by the time they reached the cave, and though she knew she should be wary of the recklessly charming stranger who had offered her shelter, her tired body and mind no longer cared, and she dropped, shattered onto the dry floor.

The man called Tristan took his horse to the back of the cave, and following him with weary but cautious eyes, Alennia saw him put the animal in a small pen, complete with feed and bedding, and proceed to rub the animal down.

When he was finished he took dry wood from a pile and started to lay a fire in a blackened ring in the centre of the floor.

"What is this place?" Alennia asked in a wondrous voice, staring around at the neat piles of food, blankets, and firewood, cleverly hidden from prying eyes by a deceptively small opening.

Tristan glanced up at her momentarily, before turning back to the small fire as he spoke. "My father found it. He set it up for use by those he knew. Slowly, the people who he had told about it were killed, usually in battle, and now I'm the only surviving one to know about the place. I still keep it stocked up, even though I haven't been here in years."

"And yet you showed me where it is?" Alennia asked curiously.

Tristan looked at her for a moment, surprised at the question. "I didn't think about it especially," he shrugged. "I trust you won't tell everyone you meet about it?"

Alennia shook her head quickly. She stayed where she was for a minute, looking longingly at the fire, before inching closer, basking in the warmth of it on her wet body.

Tristan looked up, immediately abashed for overlooking her comfort.

"If you want," he said hesitantly. "I'll get you a blanket so you can let your dress dry out."

Alennia looked up at him, doubts rushing through her mind. Was this a trick? What did he want from her? But she saw no lie, no deception in his eyes, and not for the first time that day, her exhausted body won.

"Thank you," she said, nodding shyly.

Tristan looked relieved, as if he was afraid she might have spat at his indelicacy, and immediately stood and went to fetch her a blanket. He turned, giving her some privacy to change, and wondered what on earth he was doing, bringing her to the cave.

There was something about her, he decided, something about her stubbornness on the mountainside, pride, despite her pitiful condition. The way she moved, the way she spoke…no woman Tristan had ever met had been so insulting to him, and yet so alluring. As she called softly that she was done, he turned back to those enchanting eyes, to see her wrapped up in the blanket, sitting on the floor, looking nervously up at him.

Their eyes met for a minute, and it was all Tristan could do to tear his gaze away and go to find food from his saddlebags. They sat in silence as Tristan cooked some meat over the fire, and both their thoughts were with the other. Alennia finally spoke, having been studying Tristan unashamedly as he cooked.

"You're Sarmatian aren't you? A knight?"

Tristan turned quickly with a pained expression, ready for disgust or hatred on her part, and yet she just sat there, the blanket pulled up firmly under her chin, studying him with the same attentive and fascinating expression that Tristan had always seen in her.

"Yes," he said finally. "I am a knight."

"And a Sarmatian?" she probed deeper.

"Half Sarmatian," Tristan replied carefully. "My father was a knight," he continued when it was obvious she wanted him to continue. "My mother was a Briton. I was born on the Wall, and have served Arthur Castus as a knight simply because there was nothing else for me to do."

Alennia considered this, her delicate chin resting on her hands.

"And yet you saved me?" she asked finally.

Tristan shrugged, turning back to the meat so she would not see his face. "I bear your people no ill will."

"Then why do you fight?" the question was not accusing, but simply curious.

"For the joy of fighting," Tristan answered plainly, not trying to justify or excuse his actions.

"You like to kill?" Again, there was no malice in Alennia's voice, but merely curiosity needing to be satisfied.

"No," Tristan spoke firmly. "Not to kill. To fight, yes. But never to kill."

Alennia said nothing, for there was nothing to be said, and yet far from being scared to sleep in a cave with a Sarmatian knight who fought for the sheer love of fighting, she was strangely comforted.

Tristan held some cooked rabbit out to Alennia, one eyebrow raised in question. She took it gratefully, and he watched her eating, wondering why he had told so much to a girl he scarcely knew, when his friends could rarely get whole sentences out of him.

Something about her: the inquisitive look in her eye, her subtle movements, the delicate tone of her voice, made him feel protective towards the girl who had put her whole faith in him.

That night, Tristan sat up beside the fire, watching her sleep. His mind was in turmoil: thrown off balance by one woman when whole armies would not cause him the slightest worry. He was falling, with no one to save him but her, and yet he would not have wanted it any other way.

He chuckled deeply to himself. Why he was sounding almost as bad as Lancelot, who protested he would die almost weekly for some woman or other's love.

And yet his eyes were drawn inexplicably back to the slim frame of the sleeping girl, with the ghost of a smile playing about her lips.

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**A/N –** I'm having a complete mind blank over good chapter titles, and I don't generally like it just to be 'chapter 1, chapter 2' etc, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated! 


	3. Why Walk When You Can Fly?

Tristan woke early the next morning: in the grey pre-dawn light when men speak in hushed voices and move quietly. Alennia was already awake, and she smiled shyly at him when she saw him open his eyes.

She was wearing her now dry dress, with her hair plaited demurely back, and she was relighting the fire. Tristan smiled back at her, stretched and yawned before standing up.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked as he went to see his horse at the back of the cave.

"Yes. It was better than freezing," Alennia commented teasingly.

"I'm glad you thought so, my lady," he replied, turning to her with a twinkle in his eyes.

An hour later, Tristan led his horse out of the cave, followed by Alennia. He stopped and bent to check the girth as Alennia gazed about. The morning after the storm had dawned bright and fresh, and the sun warmed Alennia's upturned face.

"Will you ride my lady?" Tristan asked out of courtesy.

Alennia looked at him quickly, and when she spoke it was in a guilty voice. "I don't know how," she admitted.

"You can't ride?" Tristan asked in amazement.

Alennia shook her head and laughed nervously. "I'm scared of horses."

Tristan raised one eyebrow. "She won't hurt you," he said, indicating the docile grey mare beside him.

"She might," Alennia said doubtfully.

Tristan laughed and swung up into the saddle. Alennia was momentarily thankful that he was not going to make her ride, but the next things she knew his arm had wrapped itself around her and he pulled her up to sit in front of him.

Alennia screamed in fright, but Tristan just laughed, and snaked his arm around her waist, holding her safely against his body.

"Put me down!" Alennia insisted, but Tristan just laughed again and pushed the horse forwards to a walk.

Alennia grabbed onto the arm around her waist, and clung onto him tightly. Despite the fear that she was going to die any second, Alennia couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of Tristan's arm around her waist, and the feeling of his body close against hers.

Tristan urged his horse into a gentle trot, loving Alennia's cry of fright and the way she clutched even more frantically at his arm. He pushed his horse forwards into a smooth canted, and this time Alennia didn't cry out in fright, but in pleasure.

"Why walk when you can fly?" Tristan whispered in Alennia's ear, as he let go of all restraints on his mare, and let her leap forwards across the heather. Alennia closed her eyes and hung onto Tristan so tightly she was sure she must be hurting him, but he gave no sign of it, and for all Alennia's fear, she felt perfectly safe with the knight holding her so carefully.

Slowly Alennia opened her eyes, and, momentarily forgetting her fear. She thought they really were flying. A Woad, a knight and a horse soaring effortlessly across the heather. Eventually, as they approached the pass, Tristan slowed the mare down to a walk, and let her reins hang loose.

Alennia twisted in the saddle to see him, and Tristan was delighted to see her eyes sparkling.

"Is it always like that?" she asked breathlessly.

"You get used to it after a while," he said dryly, enjoying watching her glowing face.

"Oh I'm sure I could never get used to it!" she exclaimed.

Tristan laughed, and swung off the horse.

"What are you doing?" Alennia asked nervously, clutching at the pommel of the saddle.

"She needs a bit of a rest, and I'm a heavy old thing."

"Let me down!" Alennia said, her voice high and panicked at the thought of being left alone on the mare.

Tristan laughed his deep, throaty laugh and shook his head. "Why walk when you can fly?" he asked mischievously. "I'm not far from my home. You still have far to go I think. You might as well rest when you can."

"You'll not let go?" Alennia asked nervously.

"No," Tristan assured her, shortening the mare's reins in his hands.

They travelled together in silence for some time, but eventually, Tristan spoke.

"What are you running from?" he asked in a casual manner, but was not unaware of Alennia stiffening at the question.

"Running?" She asked, fighting to keep her voice calm. "What do you mean?"

Tristan stopped the horse and turned to look directly at her. "I mean, a young woman is unlikely to be walking across the mountains in a howling gale with no food or warm clothing just for the fun of it. Therefore you must be running away from something."

Alennia bit her lip and looked down. "The Saxons," she said finally.

Had she been looking at him, she would have seen Tristan's eyes fill with pity. He knew too well the pain the Saxons had caused to this land: he had lost his own father to them, and was not unaware of the raids happening throughout the summer months.

"They raided the town where I lived: just by the sea. We thought we were safe. They only come in the summer and it was well into autumn. So we were unprepared. I was in the trees, collecting firewood. When I saw them coming I hid. But I heard every scream, every plea for mercy, every moan of the dying."

Her eyes turned to Tristan and he could see they were full of pain.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly.

"And when it was over, I ran," Alenia continued, oblivious to his gruff apology. "I couldn't bear to see all their dead bodies, so I just ran. I know I should have stayed: to see if any survived, and to bury the dead, but I couldn't." her voice choked up for a minute. "I ran to the mountains, where the Saxons wouldn't follow me."

"And now?" Tristan asked gently.

"I don't know," Alennia shrugged. "Keep going inland until I meet some of my own people. And then," she shrugged, "try to forget."

Tristan turned away from her, so that she wouldn't have to see the pain and sympathy for her in his eyes.

"Your people will be in the forests," he told her, moving forwards once more.

"And you know how?" Alennia asked. "Are you a spy?"

Tristan turned to look at her. "Yes," he said simply.

Alennia shrugged. "So why should I trust you when you tell me where my people are? You could be using me to lead them into a trap."

"When will you learn to trust me?" he asked in an amused tone.

"When you have shown yourself worthy of my trust!" Alennia flung back at him.

"And have I not already done that? I saved you when I could have left you to die. I gave you shelter and food. I let you ride my horse when I could have left you."

Alennia sat in a troubled silence.

At that moment a hawk swept down out of the sky, and landed on Tristan's outstretched arm.

"Hello my beauty," he said softly to the hawk, holding out some meat, which it pecked at. "How are you then?" he murmured to the bird, stroking its soft feathers.

"Is she yours?" Alennia asked quietly.

Tristan looked up at her. "Yes. I found her when I first came to this country. I rescued her from a storm….just like you."

"She is a Briton then?"

"Yes."

"If she is a Briton and she trusts you, then it seems I should also," Alennia said with a nervous smile.

Tristan grinned. "So kind of you my lady. I am deeply honoured by your faith in me."

Alennia punched him playfully in the shoulder, pretending to be cross at his teasing and he laughed even harder.

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**A/N –** thanks so much for your reviews guys! They mean so much to me. How abut you keep on reviewing and I'll keep on updating! 


	4. Never Say Goodbye

Alennia and Tristan travelled together for the better part of the day. They went through the mountain pass, and down towards the valleys below the mountain range. Both became completely at ease with the other's company. Tristan was amazed at how much he enjoyed Alennia's company. He was usually a solitary man: riding alone into enemy territory and spending days with no human contact, but there was something about Alennia that drew him towards her.

Alennia, for her part, no longer cared that he was a Sarmatian and a knight. It was enough that he was kind and caring. That he teased her and made her laugh, and yet treated her with respect and put her at her ease. More than once during the journey, Alennia found herself speculating on what it would be like to live with him always.

But no matter how much the two companions wanted the journey to last forever, they reached the foothills a few hours past midday, and their journey together had to end. Alennia dismounted from the mare, and scratched her ears in thanks for the ride.

"It seems you have lost your fear of her," Tristan commented dryly.

Alennia laughed. "Yes. Perhaps I will learn to ride."

"Then I am glad one good thing came of our meeting."

Alennia turned to him and spoke in a serious voice. "Many good things came of our meeting," she said sincerely.

Tristan nodded slowly, trying not to let his face betray the unexpected pain he felt at parting. Suddenly he pulled his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around hers.

Alennia fingered the warm material wondrously.

"Keep it," Tristan said firmly.

"I couldn't!" Alennia protested.

"You have farther to go than I," Tristan said. "You need it more than me."

"But I have already had so much from you," Alennia objected.

"And it has all been my pleasure to give it to you," Tristan said with a small smile.

Alennia gave in, pulling the warm material tighter around her slender frame. "Thank you," she whispered.

Tristan swung himself up onto the mare, and looked down at her with a curious expression on his face. Alennia went to stand next to the horse, one hand smoothing the mare's hair down. She looked up at Tristan, and for a moment could not hide the sorrow in her eyes.

"I'll miss you," she said softly.

"And I you," he said sincerely, his face unusually thoughtful, before grinning in his normal teasing way once more.

With a flirtatious wink at the surprised Alennia, he pushed the mare forwards into a strong canter, and a moment later he was gone, leaving Alennia with nothing but a cloak and a memory.

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A/N - Sorry it's such a short chapter! I'm swamped with coursework etc right now, but hopefully it won't be too long before I update.


	5. Work to Do

_Two years later_

Alennia was leaning lazily against a tree just outside the circle of firelight. Despite her drowsy appearance, she was wide-awake, taking in and processing every scrap of information. In the light of the large fire stood a tall man, with fierce tattoos and wild, matted hair. His name was Merlin. Around him was grouped both men and women, all armed and all warriors. They were arguing fiercely while Merlin watched with an amused look on his face – the outcome of their argument affected him little, since he commanded them, and therefore they would do as he bade them no matter what they thought.

"Silence!" Alennia finally roared, irritated by the constant bickering of the heads of the Woad tribes. "Listen to your commander," she said sharply. In the two short years she had fought with Merlin she had earned many enemies among the tribes. But she fought the Saxons with a ruthless skill, and was therefore vastly useful to Merlin, who now directed the amused expression at her.

"I thank you, Alennia," he said in his harsh, guttural voice, before turning back to the assembled leaders. "Arthur Castus has demanded a meeting. I go to talk to him tomorrow on the plains before the wall. We have agreed that each of us will have one of our people to accompany us, no more, no less. Coming with me is…" he paused, well aware of the enormity of his decision as to who would accompany him, for whichever tribal leader he chose would be considered exalted among the others, and therefore yet another feud would break out between clans. "…Alennia," he finished.

Alennia was momentarily taken aback, and uncurled her lean body from where she rested against the tree as she recovered her surprise. "My Lord," she said, bowing her head to him. Despite her shock, she could not help but grin at the incredulous expressions on the faces of the assembled chiefs.

Merlin nodded his head slowly, as if considering something to himself. "I have no doubt a battle is coming," he said slowly. "A battle that will decided the Roman – Woad war for the next year. Make your tribes ready, for when I call I expect them to come," his placid voice hid a scarcely veiled threat in his words, and all listening were well aware of it.

"That is all," Merlin said wearily. "Go."

The tribal leaders rose, some reluctantly, some willingly, and began to disperse. Alennia was aware of the looks thrown in her direction, full of loathing and malice, but she heeded them not. When the last Woad had disappeared silently into the trees Alennia approached Merlin.

"I am honoured," she said, bowing her head as a mark of respect for him.

"You will do well tomorrow, or I shall look a fool," Merlin remarked.

"I will not fail you," Alennia promised.

"Even if you do," Merlin said, with a ghost of a smile on his face. "It would be worth it to have seen their faces."

Alennia laughed as she retreated out of the firelight. "Dawn tomorrow?" she asked as she left.

"Dawn tomorrow," he agreed, watching as the wiry form of Alennia melted into the blackness.

He stood there for some time, thinking about the woman who faced life with a cynical, amused attitude, and fought like she had nothing to lose. She was a good warrior, he admitted to himself, a very useful weapon against both the Saxons and his own people.

And yet there was something in her that was not all it seemed. For all her sarcasm and cynicism there were times, Merlin reflected, when she seemed almost human. When she showed in her eyes that she hurt and loved like any other man or woman. He sighed and turned away from the fire. Who knew what the following dawn would bring? All he could do was hope that the mocking woman whom he had placed his trust in would not fail him.

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Alennia strode out of the clearing and into the dark trees, her mind already plotting and scheming. She needed to do this thing right tomorrow – she had enough enemies as it was, and certainly wouldn't survive long without Merlin's protection.

A few hundred yards from the clearing where she had left Merlin, stood two horses, and a boy of about fourteen years curled up, half asleep at the bottom of a tree, his cloak wrapped tightly around him and his hand folded firmly over the horses' reins.

Alennia absent-mindedly kicked him in the side as she came up to him, and then turned to busy herself with her horse as he woke with a start.

"We have work to do," she said tersely, as the boy jumped to his feet, all traces of sleep gone from his face.

His name was Manat, and Alennia had found him a year back: the only survivor of a Saxon raid. Since then he had followed Alennia, caring for her horses, fighting by her side and keeping her sword sharp and her bow taut. She had saved his life, and now he insisted on serving her until he had pain that debt. Or at least that was how Alennia saw it. To Manat, Alennia was a chance to kill Saxons, and he would follow her to the ends of the earth if she bade him, so loyal was he to her.

"Where now?" he asked, as the two of them swung up onto their horses.

"To find some archers," Alennia replied with a quick grin at him, before turning her horse and wheeling away into the darkness, with Manat on her heels.

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**A/N –** to clear some thing up: yes, for all you bright sparks this is indeed a TristanOC (sorry, that wasn't meant to sound as mean as it came out). It's set before the film, and starts in the knights' third year of service to Rome. Sorry this is still quite short – a nice long chapter coming up next. Promise! Any suggestions would be greatly welcomed – I don't really have much of an idea about where this is going: it just randomly came to me one day when I was climbing Snowdon actually (for all you Americans, on non-English people, that's the third highest mountain in Britain, and it possibly the best mountain I've ever climbed. Anyway, that's irrelevant, but…what was I saying? Oh yeah, this isn't one of those carefully prepared stories, it's a random collection of ideas, so any direction would be great! Love y'all, and keep up with those reviews please! 


	6. Hungry Eyes

Alennia walked into the clearing where Merlin waited, just before dawn began to streak the sky the next morning. She wore her customary alert expression, but the dark rings beneath her eyes and pale face betrayed her lack of sleep the night before.

"Ready?" Merlin asked her as she approached on silent feet.

"Twenty archers hidden in the trees: arrows aimed at Arthur and his companion, ten men on foot ready if I call, or if there is any sign of danger, five mounted men in case they try to escape with anything, or anyone, on horseback," Alennia recited, pulling her blade from it's sheath at her waist, and absently inspecting it.

"I knew you wouldn't fail me," Merlin said, more to himself than to Alennia.

"The day hasn't ended yet," she replied evenly. "Judge me when the sun has set."

Merlin laughed, a coarse, rasping laugh that set Alennia's teeth on edge. "Then let us go."

Alennia was exhausted. She had ridden hard for the whole of the previous day to make it to the gathering that Merlin had called, then had spent all night doing a reconnaissance on the following day's meeting ground, she had organised men to cover the whole area, from every possible angle, had wracked her brains for hours, trying to think of the best way to kill Merlin from Arthur's point of view, and had then made it back to the clearing for dawn to meet Merlin.

She wanted nothing better than to curl up into a ball and sleep for several weeks, but she could not. She needed all her senses on maximum alert this morning, and could not afford to let the needs of her body stand in her way.

It was, of course, not the first time Alennia had had to fight pain and exhaustion. There was a time, she remembered, when she went for a week, fleeing inland from the Saxons, with an arrow in her leg, and less than two hours sleep each night. But this was different. If things went wrong this time it was not her life at stake, it was Merlin's.

She and Merlin walked out of the forest and forwards about two hundred yards onto the plains. Alennia could make out the wall a mile and a half away, and two riders on the plain before the wall, riding at a leisurely canter towards them.

Alennia glanced nervously around at her preparations, her mind buzzing with worries and concerns, but Arthur was almost upon them, and it was too late to be making adjustments now. All she could do was prey that it indeed was nothing but a friendly meeting, and not a cover for an ambush or attack.

When the two mounted men had drawn closed, Alennia had a chance to study them. The one on the left was obviously Arthur: his Roman armour and whole bearing betrayed him. But the knight by his side! Alennia's heart leapt into her mouth as she saw a hawk circling above him, and for one crazy moment, she wanted to scream to the Woads hidden in the trees on no account to fire at him. For it was Tristan.

When the two men were a hundred yards from Merlin and Alennia, they dismounted, and both Merlin and Arthur advanced towards each other on foot, with Tristan and Alennia a pace behind their commanders.

"Well met, Artorius," Merlin said in his strange Roman accent, nodding his head to Arthur. Arthur returned the salute, and Alennia let her eyes wander to Tristan as the two leaders began to speak.

She was gratified to see his astounded gaze directed at her, and for a fraction of a second their eyes met. He remembered her! And finding her gaze captured by his, the brief moment when her eyes met Tristan's seemed to last for eternity, and a multitude of memories swept back to Alennia: the mocking, amused voice on the windswept hillside, the captivating, reckless smile, the dark, stormy eyes that now held her, trapped, like one drowning, who did not want to be saved.

Alennia turned her attention back to Merlin and Arthur. They were discussing the release of a Woad the Romans had captured, but Alennia wasn't really listening.

Recollections of two years previously were washing through her, and she felt a strange desire to talk once again, to the knight who had saved her. Her hand crept to hold the edge of her cloak. His cloak. That he remembered her was all she could think. The words echoed around her head, and it took enormous willpower to pull her mind from the dark knight opposite her, to Arthur, and the risks he presented.

The two men talked for several hours, and the sun was high in the sky before the negotiations had finished. Tristan, whilst listening to the conversation of his commander, had not taken his eyes from Alennia's face.

An amused smile played around the corners of his mouth as he watched her studiously avoid him, and yet every now and then her eyes would flick towards him: eyes filled with curiosity, and Tristan inwardly smiled to see her jerk her eyes away when she realised he was watching her, her face colouring slightly.

She had changed, Tristan thought. In two years she had gone from being a terrified girl, running from her fear, to a proud woman, who faced her enemies and spat at their feet. Tristan was aware of archers hidden in the forests, he had been a scout for long enough to know when an arrow was aimed at him, and he rightly guessed that it was her who had organised the archers.

Two years ago, she had been thin, and pale from exhaustion. She still looked exhausted, Tristan thought, but she had learnt that things such as fatigue and pain were simply obstacles to overcome. There was a scar on her cheek, and she wore her weapons: a sword slung casually around her waist, and a bow on her shoulder, with such ease and negligence that Tristan gathered she had seen a lot of fighting since he had seen her last.

And yet she had never fought the Romans. He was sure of that, for he had unconsciously looked for her on every battlefield. It was from the memory of the hatred and fear in her voice when she had spoken of the Saxons that he guessed that she fought them now. So what was she doing here? And why did he care so much?

Alennia was painfully aware of Tristan's gaze on her. She could feel herself colour up with embarrassment when she caught him watching her, and yet he just continued to watch her with that same casual, amused expression.

Why was his attention so fixed on her? she wondered to herself. And why did she care so much? She was close to being a very beautiful woman, and was not ignorant of the stares she attracted from men. But there was something different about Tristan. He wasn't just looking at her body; it was if he saw through that. And that scared Alennia. He held a strange kind of power over her: a power that both scared and captivated her.

* * *

A/N – What d'you think? Good meeting or not? Random point – I know Tristan isn't much like he is in the film, but there is a reason for that! He changes from being more like Lancelot (in my version) to more like Dagonet but with a wish to exterminate everything he can lay his hands on (in the film) because of what happens in this story. It is _not_ just my terrible portrayal of him! Well, that's probably got something to do with it. What I'm trying to get at is that this story is the reason that he is a very different man in the film. Oh dear, I'm not phrasing this very well am I? C'est la vie! (Meaning 'that's life,' for all you non-French speaking people out there. I've just finished learning 50+ French words, which is why my brain is still in French mode, and I'm having trouble gathering my thoughts in English.) I reckon I've garbled on for long enough now, and am probably scaring all you nice reviewers out there, so I'm gonna shut up and hope you'll return when I'm not in such a random mood! I blame the French vocab!

P.S – Long enough chapter?


	7. Until We Meet Again

**Chapter Seven: Until We Meet Again**

Alennia sighed almost audibly as the negotiations finished. Although they weren't safe yet, Alennia was fairly confident that she had succeeded. Arthur had wanted nothing more than to talk, and though she was slightly irritated that all her careful planning and scheming was in vain, she was relieved that it would not have to be put to the test.

Merlin and Arthur paid each other the required compliments, and turned to go their separate ways. Alennia went to follow Merlin, but Tristan put a hand on her arm, stopping her. She turned nervously, uncertain as to what she should say, but Tristan spoke first.

"I seem to recognise that cloak," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Really?" Alennia feigned incredulity. "How strange. I found it, beside a path, a while ago."

Tristan raised his eyebrows, but he was grinning. "Perhaps we might meet one of these days, to continue our discussion as to the ownership of it."

"Perhaps we shall," Alennia said, bowing her head to him, so that, to all looking on, it looked like nothing more than an exchange of civilities.

"I wait upon that day with baited breath," Tristan grinned at her, returning the salute.

"Don't wait too long," Alennia said, before turning and following Merlin. She was amazed to find that she was shaking, and her arm still burnt with an icy fire from his touch. She shrugged the feelings off, laughing inwardly at herself, and plunged into the dark forests to where Merlin waited.

* * *

"You did well," was all the praise she received from her leader, and yet she even shrugged this sparse commendation off. 

"I did nothing."

"But if they had planned an ambush?" Merlin asked. "You would have been ready."

Alennia bowed her head in recognition of the praise. Though she felt truly honoured to get such words out of a man who condemned more than he commended, she was exhausted. She hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours, and felt dead on her feet.

"I may go?" she asked, trying not to collapse from fatigue.

"Almost," Merlin said. "But before that…you will not fight the Romans?"

Alennia was surprised. They had had this conversation before. "I owe the Romans no animosity. I do not kill for pleasure."

"You would not kill for freedom?"

"Only from the Saxons."

"Very well," Merlin sighed. "Then I have no choice. You are now the commander of the clan of the wolf."

Alennia almost gasped out loud in shock. The Wolf clan? They were a group of men and women whose lives had been torn apart by Saxon raids. Those who had nothing left to live for but to kill Saxons. They had gathered together and roamed along the coastline in the summer months, killing with a brutal efficiency. It was said that they were the best protection Britain had against the Sason invaders, for they gave no thought for their own lives, and therefore fought where other men fled.

"The commander?" she asked softly.

"The commander," Merlin concurred. "They are stationed at the base of the mountains. You will need to be there within five days." He paused, almost smiling at her. "Don't get yourself killed too soon."

"Thank you," Alennia stuttered, but Merlin had swept away.

* * *

**A/N** – Yay! I finally have chapter names! What do you think of them? Most of them are song lyrics or titles, so this is just a disclaimed to say I probably didn't come up with them myself… Sorry if it was a bit confusing when I said, "trying to think of the best way to kill Merlin from Arthur's point of view" in Chapter 6: Well Met. I meant Alennia was trying to see things from the enemies' point of view, so that she would be well prepared when they attacked. I know. 


	8. Angel Eyes

**Chapter Eight: Angel Eyes**

_Two months later_

Alennia rode slowly through the forest, perfectly content to let her mare amble along at her own pace. It had been a long, hard winter, and finally spring was drawing in. The snow was melting in the mountains, and in the valleys Alennia could see brave shoots beginning to push up through the warming earth.

Spring was always Alennia's favourite time of year. Or at least it had been for the last two years. For it heralded the beginning of the Saxon raids on the coast. There was a time, Alennia thought, when the thought of Saxons made her quake in fear, but since they had slaughtered her family one autumn on the beaches of her homeland, she had lived to kill them.

A fierce pleasure rose in her as she thought of the hordes of Saxons coming to her country where she waited to spill their blood. She lived a cruel and brutal existence nowadays: she led a band of men and women, some no more than children. All had suffered at the hands of the Saxons in some way, and all, like Alennia, lived for revenge. It was not perhaps as satisfactory a life as Alennia had anticipated, but she had nothing left to live for, save to make the Saxons suffer as they had once made her suffer.

And yet she did have something to live for, a part of her mind told her, and her fingers automatically crept to the cloak that she wore. The memory of a pair of kind eyes on a wild-looking face, a rough voice hiding a gentle soul.

She sighed exasperatedly. Look at her! Her usually composed mind falling to bits at a man she had known less than twenty-four hours! What was she coming to! Alennia laughed gaily at her own folly, unable to be unhappy, for it was spring, and the Saxons would soon be queuing up to taste her sword.

* * *

A bird swooped down on the path in front of her, catching a mouse in its claws, and carrying the struggling beast up onto a branch by the side of the track through the trees to eat it. Alennia watched the hawk with interest, and something in the back of her mind recognised it. She frowned slightly, and then a knowing, and yet delighted smile crept onto her face.

Suddenly an arrow shot out of the trees and buried itself in a tree trunk by her head. Alennia laughed out loud, not at all put out by her narrow escape.

"Is that any way to treat a stranger?" she asked the woods teasingly, quoting words spoken two years previously.

A man with tattooed cheeks and wild hair rode out of the trees, with an amused grin on his face.

"I see you've learnt to ride," he commented.

"And I see you're still as uncivil as ever," Alennia could not help but grinning with sheer delight at seeing him.

"I said we'd meet again," Tristan said, pulling the arrow absently out of the tree. "I must admit, I have heard a lot about you."

"Oh have you?" Alennia asked, raising her eyebrows provocatively. Tristan looked in amazement at the change in her from the suspicious, timid girl he had met on the bleak mountainside, to the confident flirtatious woman before him.

"You have gained something of a reputation," Tristan admitted, lifting his gaze to meet her captivating eyes. There was something about them. In the two years since they had met, when her image had long faded from his mind, the memory of those eyes remained. They were dark, but flashing with colour and light. When she tried to conceal her emotions in her facial expressions, her eyes betrayed her. They were so captivating, that Tristan was amazed at the sheer willpower he had to use to break the gaze.

"Then let us hope that the Saxons have heard of it," Alennia grinned at him.

"I'll drink to that," Tristan agreed.

Alennia laughed. "And what is noble Sir Tristan doing in the forests of the Woads?"

"What noble Sir Tristan always does," he answered, inspecting her horse.

Alennia laughed, and watched as he looked the horse over. "What do you think?" Alennia asked, indicating her mare.

Tristan shrugged. "She's no match for my Bretena," he said, stroking the neck of his dapple-grey fondly.

"I'll wager I can beat you in a race," Alennia replied immediately.

"On that nag?" Tristan asked incredulously.

"Scared you'll lose?" Alennia asked provocatively.

"Alright! Where to?"

"There's a clearing about half a mile from here. First one there wins," Alennia said, already pulling her mare together.

"See you there!" Tristan said with a wild grin, as the two horses, freed from all restrainsts, plunged forwards into the forest.

They started neck and neck at first, but as the path narrowed, Tristan was obliged to pull back or ride into a tree. Alennia pushed her old mare forwards, but was only too aware of the ease at which Tristan kept behind her, and as the path widened once more, he overtook her easily, the competitive spirit in Bretena coming out, and he charged into the clearing half a yard or so before her.

They pulled their horses up: him laughing, her in mock annoyance, and they dropped their horses' reins and let them walk freely to catch their breaths.

"It seems you have lost your wager," Tristan said, grinning at Alennia.

"We weren't betting!" Alennia protested.

"Oh weren't we?" Tristan asked, and Alennia laughed at him.

"Alright. Name your prize."

Tristan considered her for a moment, and then a wicked smile crept onto his mouth. "One kiss," he said, grinning widely.

Alennia put on a face of mock horror. "Why, Sir knight!"

Tristan just laughed, and Alennia matched his wicked expression with one of her own. "You want a kiss? You can collect it when we next meet!" and with a delighted laugh, she pushed her horse straight into a canter, and had disappeared untraceably into the trees within seconds.

Tristan was left in the clearing, the fading laughter of Alennia echoing around the trees. If that wasn't an invitation to find her again, he thought cheerfully, then who knows what it was.

* * *

A/N - not sure if that sentance was meant to have a question mark at the end of it...anyway, thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews, I love you all very much, and I'll try to get round to reading all your work too! Thanks and watch this space...well, not literally


	9. New Beginnings

**Chapter Ten: New Beginnings**

Alennia sat, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, her eyes following every movement made by the two women fighting in front of her, her head automatically nodding out a rhythm to the swings of their swords.

She had reached the clan…_her_ clan, a week ago, and smiled fondly to herself, as she remembered the sheer panic that had filled her at the thought of meeting the people she was going to lead. Alennia had never been anything more than an errand-runner for Merlin, and had never fought beside anyone but Manat. What was she doing leading a group of fierce warriors?

And yet now, watching them training, assessing their skills in combat, both as individuals and an entire fighting force, things were beginning to click in Alennia's mind. She was beginning to see how each man, woman and child fought: some with a brutal ferocity, some with a reckless savagery, some, those who had decided to take as many Saxons with them when they went, fought more carefully – each stroke aimed to keep them surviving to kill again.

And Alennia also began to see the comradeship. For all the reports that the clan fought without heed for their own lives, Alennia was starting to see how much they had to live for. How much _she _had to live for.

The fight before her came to an end, and Alennia was jerked abruptly back into the present. The two women were standing, looking at her expectantly. Alennia gazed back at them, considering things.

"What are your names?" she asked, resting her chin on her knees as she considered them.

"I am Armelle," the older woman said. "This is Bari." She indicated the young woman beside her, who was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed and strands of her hair escaping from her plait.

"You fight well," Alennia said, still lost in thought. She said nothing for some time, and then spoke suddenly. "Armelle. Who is in charge of the clan? Or who was before I came?"

"We had no specific leader," Armelle answered, evading the question.

"But someone must have made the decisions?"

There was a short silence, and eventually Bari spoke. "She led us," she said, looking at Armelle impatiently.

Alennia grinned at Armelle, who must have been about five years older than she was, she judged, but, like most of the people in the clan, looked much older than her years.

"Modest?"

"Something like that," Armelle answered, unable to prevent herself grinning back at her new commander.

"Gather the clan. I want to talk to them," Alennia said briskly, amazed at how easy she found it to make herself sound authoritative, as she stood, and when Armelle and Bari had left she went to find Manat.

* * *

Manat was grooming the horses. He had arrived at the clan a week before Alennia, to 'prepare the ground' as she had said. He had only been with them a fortnight, but already he loved life with the clan. 

Here, no one was squeamish about the idea of spilling Saxon blood. Here he could spend all day with the horses, or test his combat skills against that of the men and women in the clan. Here, he was respected both as a swordsman and as a horseman, and was not just another orphan of the Saxon raids.

He heard the familiar step of Alennia behind him, and did not turn to greet her. "Thought you'd forgotten about me," he said with a dry smile.

"I'm sorry!" Alennia apologised, immediately dismayed. "I've just been so busy, trying to get to know everyone and…"

"It's alright!" Manat interrupted her, turning with an amused grin. "Just teasing."

Alennia let her breath out in relief, and her shoulders slumped. "I've been feeling guilty about abandoning you," she explained.

"Don't you worry about me! I'm perfectly happy…what did you want?"

Alennia leant against her mare, absently fondling her silky mane. "I need to talk to the clan."

"Tell them who you are, how you got here," Manat said bluntly, and Alennia was, not for the first time, amazed at how much older he was than his thirteen years.

"I don't want to…"

"Look like your fishing for sympathy?" Manat asked, glancing at her briefly, before turning back to the horse. "It won't be like that. They know too well the horrors of the raids. They'd prefer to be led by one who knows that too."

Alennia nodded slowly, and sighed. "I better get it over and done with then."

"You'll be fine."

Alennia stood, trembling, and trying desperately not to let it show. She was painfully aware of the eyes of the entire clan on her: judging and forming their own conclusions. Half of her wanted to turn away: to shrink up into a tiny ball until they had all forgotten about her. She was no public speaker! She avoided having to talk out in front of people at all cost. What was she, but an orphan of the Saxons raids who had somehow found her way into Merlin's esteem.

But then a strange memory flashed through her mind. A knight: tall and dark, with a mocking smile and captivating eyes. He would never be scared of giving a speech! He would face it like he did everything: with his charismatic manner and amused expression. And something in that memory gave Alennia the strength she needed to speak.

"My name is Alennia," she said, amazed that her voice was so strong. "And I am now your leader." She let her gaze rake through the crowd before her. "This clan had a reputation. They say you fight with ferocity, that you kill with pleasure, and that you die with no fear." She paused to let this sink in. "And this isn't good enough. I don't want to lead a clan of suicidal people." Alennia could feel the animosity building up against her, and yet this time there was no fear: just an overriding confidence. "I want to lead a clan of people that will live through each battle, so that they may kill even more Saxons before their time is up."

Armelle, standing in the crowd, smiled in quiet satisfaction at her new leader. She was expertly twisting the clan around her little finger, and Armelle was more than pleased to fight for such a woman. Indeed, she was proud.

"You look at me," Alennia continued. "And what do you see? A woman, younger than most of you, given this clan as a 'present' because she's Merlin's favourite?" she laughed to herself. "I didn't want to lead. I just wanted to kill Saxons. Two years ago they killed everyone in my village. I survived. Two years ago I thought there was nothing to live for. Now I realise that it was just a new beginning. A fresh start. Since then I have lived to kill Saxons. Now, looking at you, I think that perhaps there is something else. Not only can we fear them, but we can strike fear into their very souls at the sound of our name. The Clan of the Wolf." Alennia paused, staring into the distance as if she was contemplating something. "How do you want to be remembered? As the people who welcomed death, or as those who showed no fear?"

* * *

**A/N** - As ever guys! Thank you so much for all your reviews - they mean so much to me! Oh yeah, and I've changed some of the chapter names. The content is still the same - I've just revised the titles. 

**lucillaq **- I'm afraid you're rightwith your guess of the plot! Am I so transparent? Just kidding! The kiss is gonna have to wait a while longer - you think Alennia would give in without a bit of a fight?


	10. Debts to Remember

**Chapter Ten: Debts to Remember**

Alennia walked at a fast pace, a bag slung over her shoulder and a bundle under one arm. Her horse, led by Manat, followed dolefully, unappreciative of being made into a pack animal. And behind her was the clan. _Her _clan, Alennia thought with a burst of pride. They had stayed in the foothills of the mountains for almost three weeks, and in that time Alennia had never stopped being amazed at the men and women who had lost all, and yet could still laugh and joke with each other around the campfires at night.

They had all suffered at the hands of the Saxons in one way or another, and they all lived to shed more Saxon blood. Alennia had watched them training: their swordsmanship, archery, and unarmed combat. She had trained and advised them, all the time painfully aware of her own limitations on the battlefield, and she had sculpted them into the closest she could get to a model fighting unit.

And now they were on their long trek to the sea, across the mountains and through the forests to the coast. Alennia pushed them hard, having already tested their skills in combat, and now wanting to test their endurance.

They walked from dawn to dusk each day, only stopping to collect water as they passed streams high in the dry mountains. After a week's steady walking, Alennia was suitably satisfied with their stamina and hardiness, and she was beginning to slow the pace down as they descended down a winding path to the valley below.

It was midday, Alennia estimated as she squinted at the sun, and as she looked up into the sky she saw a hawk circling high above. A hawk with distinctive black bands on its wings. Alennia smiled to herself, and scanned the path before her, stretching into the distance, following the contours of the mountain, and twisting out of sight. She saw him, eventually, almost a mile away, riding up the wide path towards her, but a moment later he disappeared behind the folds of the mountain.

Alennia considered her options. She didn't want to lose the newly won trust and respect of her clan by letting them know that she knew him. She was reasonably confident that if she managed to convey to him that they were unacquainted, then her clan need never know. But could she stop him from saying anything, early enough?

She sighed. There was no way they could get off the path now – there was nothing but bare mountainside either side, and she had no doubt that he had already seen them. She would just have to pray – something she wasn't in the habit of doing much – that he would take her lead.

And so she shifted her bundle higher, and walked on.

* * *

"Alennia!" Manat called, and she turned to see a slightly nervous-looking Bari walking just behind her.

"Yes?" she asked, stopping.

"I…I think I saw something ahead," Bari explained, not wanting to risk bringing the whole clan to a stop for something she imagined.

"What?" Alennia asked.

"One of the Sarmatian knights," Bari explained, emboldened by Alennia's easy-going response.

"Yes," Alennia smiled slightly. "I know."

"Well…what are we going to do?" Bari asked, bewildered.

"Do? What should we do?"

"I don't know," Bari confessed. "Get off the path? Or hide?"

"You suggest that seventy-three men and women should flee from one lone rider?" Alennia asked, all-too aware of the judgements being made of her, by her reaction to this apparent threat.

"He is a knight," Bari pointed out.

"And we are the Wolf Clan!"

"But knights do not travel alone," Armelle pointed out, stepping out from behind Bari.

"We fight the Saxons, not the knights," Alennia said firmly. "We do not trouble them. They do not trouble us." And so saying, she slung her pack back over her shoulder and set off at a determined pace.

* * *

Half an hour later they met Tristan coming along the road towards them. Alennia's eyes were immediately locked on his face, pleading with him not to give anything away. He was riding with his usual causal style, hands crossed over the pommel, leaning back lazily in the saddle, and he executed a mocking half-bow as he neared them.

Alennia motioned for the clan to stop, and bowed her head to return his salute.

"Sir Knight," she said, in a feigned bad Roman accent.

"Lady," Tristan replied, his eyes studying her, as he tried to work out what those pleading eyes met.

"We are travelling to the coast. Towards Saxon blood. We mean no harm to the Romans."

Things suddenly clicked in Tristan's mind, and Alennia felt a rush of gratitude towards him.

"You must be the Clan of the Wolf," he remarked.

"I'm sorry," Alennia said, switching back to her own language so that her people could understand. "Do you speak my language? I only know a few words of yours," and as her eyes met his, they both knew it was a lie.

"Of course lady," Tristan replied promptly. "You are of the Wolf Clan?"

"Yes," Alennia said. "Travelling to the coast to kill Saxons," she reiterated for those in her clan who knew no Roman.

"I've heard of you," Tristan admitted. "It seems the Saxons are learning to fear."

Alennia could not help but grin in pure delight at this compliment, and, resisting the urge to hug him, nodded her head in acknowledgement of the tribute to her clan.

"Do you have some water to spare?" Tristan asked. "It is a hot day and I am thirsty."

"Why should I waste water on one I am meaning to kill?" Alennia asked lightly, a grin on her face.

Tristan just raised her eyebrows. "You are very polite to someone you are intending to kill," he remarked, unruffled by her comment.

Alennia shrugged. "It doesn't cost me anything."

"What if there are others with him?" Armelle whispered to Alennia from behind her shoulder. "They might want revenge."

Alennia smiled to herself that she should be taken seriously, and so pretended to consider Armelle's comment.

"Is it true, Sir Knight?" she asked, eyes wide and innocent. "Would you be missed if we killed you?"

"I'd like to hope I would be," he said, his eyes boring into Alennia's, and for a moment she was at a loss for words as she began to drown in those deep eyes, but she dragged her gaze away, and shook her head slightly to clear it.

"That's a shame. It seems we may have to let you go."

"I shall be eternally in your debt, lady, for sparing my humble life," Tristan said, performing a mocking little bow in the saddle.

Alennia could not help but laugh at this. "Just remember your debts," she warned him, moving aside to let him pass as she handed him a water skin. He drank deeply and his eyes met hers once more as he handed it back.

"I think it is you who need to remember their debts," he said softly, a grin playing around his mouth.

Alennia blushed furiously, remembering their meeting in the forest, and with a laugh Tristan pushed his horse forwards into a canted and passed the trail of curious warriors.


	11. Tears in the Night

**Chapter Eleven: Tears in the Night**

Alennia sat wearily on her horse, surveying the carnage around her with a professional satisfaction. The battle had been short: two hours past dawn and the bodies of the Saxons were being pillaged, their bodies mutilated and their ship burnt: the black smoke drifting lazily across the bay.

Alennia had led the clan for almost five months now, and autumn was beginning to draw in. alennia, despite her regret that it would be almost six months before she could shed more Saxon blood, welcomed the change of the seasons. She was tired. Her body was almost constantly aching from the frequent battles, and it seemed that as soon as one wound healed she received a new one. But more than that, she was beginning to realise that perhaps revenge wasn't as satisfying as she had originally thought.

She let her mind drift back over the last battle. Yes, the familiar blood-lust had filled her, and she had found herself throwing herself at the enemy, screaming unintelligible curses at the men who had killed her family, but afterwards there wasn't the feeling of vicious pleasure that she had felt the first few times she had killed Saxons. There was just…an emptiness, a hollow, gnawing feeling in her gut that somehow filled her with disappointment and regret, without reducing any of the desire to kill more.

She sighed, and then inwardly laughed at herself. Look at her! she was turning into an old woman. All she had ever wanted was to kill her family's murders, to show them the pain that she herself had suffered, and now she had all the time and resources in the world to do it, and she was complaining.

With a low chuckle that disconcerted the people around her, she pushed her horse forwards and walked slowly through the drifting, patchy black smoke.

* * *

Alennia sat awake on watch that night. She had a blanket pulled over her shoulders and rested against a boulder as her clan slept around her. She liked keeping watch, despite Manat and Armelle trying their best to persuade her that it wasn't the commander's job to do such menial tasks as being a sentry, but Alennia enjoyed it. in the quiet of the night, when all the weariness of the day had washed away, Alennia could remember what life had once been like. A Life before all the pain, the hurt, and the responsibility. A life she had enjoyed, she thought bitterly.

And as she sat, alone with only the silence, she became slowly aware of a presence near her. she slowly rose to her feet and crossed to the fire, acting casually, as if she was only going to build the fire up, she located the position of her silent observer.

With her back to him, or her, she put her hand to the hilt of her sword, without actually drawing it, and spoke, her back still to the woods that surrounded her.

"You may as well come out," she said in a conversational tone.

A deep throaty chuckle came from the woods. "So you can skewer me with that pretty weapon of yours?" the watcher said, a mildly amused tone in his voice. "I think I will stay where I am."

"Tristan?" Alennia asked incredulously, her voice so soft it could scarcely be heard.

"_Sir_ Tristan, to you," he said.

Alennia laughed, recovering her surprise. "You have a knack of turning up in the most unexpected of places," she said, sitting down.

"I do my best. You usually seem to be expecting me," he commented.

"It's night – I can't see that hawk of yours," Alennia explained, her eyes still raking the darkness for a glimpse of him.

"Oh so is that how you do it?"

"What are you doing here?" Alennia asked after a moment's silence.

"I came to see you," he replied with aplomb. "What did you think?"

Alennia felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and was glad the darkness concealed it. "Well, you've seen me," she answered, hoping her voice didn't sound so hesitant as it felt.

Tristan laughed from the darkness. "I also came to remind you of your debt."

Alennia raised her eyebrows. "Persistant, aren't you?" she remarked.

"I like to have what's owed to me."

There was silence for some time, before Tristan spoke again.

"You seem to be doing a good job as leader."

Alennia shrugged. "No better than anyone else."

"Perhaps... perhaps not," was his non-commital answer.

Alennia stood up, and slowly walked towards the trees. "Why are you really here?" she asked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she left the firelight, until she could just make out his wiry form, leaning nonchalantly against a tree.

"I…" and for the first time he seemed to be lost for words.

"Tristan," Alennia said softly, taking another step towards him. "Tell me."

"I came to say goodbye," Tristan said with a heavy voice.

"Goodbye?" Alennia asked, her voice catching in her throat.

"I'm being posted to the east country. I'll be there for a year at least, more likely two."

"You're leaving?" Alennia asked, her heart feeling painfully heavy, though she could not fathom why.

"I have to."

Alennia stepped forwards again, until they were only inches away from each other. "You'll come back?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

"If you are waiting for me, I will return."

Alennia felt a tear run involuntarily down one cheek. She sniffed angrily. She was behaving like a child! A man she scarcely knew was leaving the area, what was that to her? What apart from the gaping hole in her chest? she thought.

Tristan reached out and gently wiped the tear off her face, amazed at her reaction. He had no idea that she even cared about him at all, and she was crying for his departure? He had come to lock her face in his mind, so that if they never met again he would always have the memory of her.

Alennia sniffed again, and then raised her face to study the dark one in front of her. she felt slightly ashamed at acting like such a fool, but there was only compassion in the eyes before her; no ridicule or scorn.

She reached out slowly and touched the side of his face with one soft finger. Tristan felt a shiver rush down his spine at her touch, and he fought back the urge to hold her hand to his face.

"Come back," she whispered, and then slowly withdrew her hand and turned and melted into the darkness, leaving Tristan regretting the necessity to leave even more than he had already.

* * *

**A/N –** Sorry I'm not updating more frequently right now guys: I have my mocks next week, a piano exam on Thursday and exam with the Air Cadets on Friday! So I'm kinda busy right now! I will update ASAP, but any ideas as to where I should go from now would be greatly appreciated as I'm kind of loosing the direction of the plot! 


	12. Traitor

**Chapter Twelve: Traitor**

Alennia, unbeknown to Tristan, waited at the edge of the forest, watching him until he left. She watched as he stood, immobile, after she had left him. She watched as one of his rough hands slowly came up to touch the place she had touched his cheek. She watched as he sighed and dropped his hand abruptly, before turning away, and making his way back into the darkness.

And as Alennia watched, her heart bled, and she slowly began to realise something. Something that would change her life forever. Something that would ultimately lead to all the pleasure and all the pain she could ever have imagined. And as the realisation slowly began to grow on her, she felt oppressed by the weight of the understanding that she had come to, and she backed slowly away until she hit a tree, and then slid down to the base and buried her face in her hands: not crying, for she was too suffocated by the awareness that engulfed her to find tears.

Eventually, when the moon was low in the sky, she pulled herself to her feet. Her eyes were red, though no tears had been shed, and she placidly smoothed her clothes out and brushed her hair back with one hand.

Alennia took a deep breath, and stepped out of the trees and back to the camp. She made a cursory glance around the camp, and satisfied that everyone was sleeping, resumed her place beside the fire.

No one must know what had passed between her and the scout that night. She had too many enemies in high places, and her status was yet too young to risk being branded a traitor. For that was the name for those who consorted with the enemy. Traitor. It was a cold, brutal word that could crush a person. It had no honour, no respectability, no feeling.

Traitor.

The word echoed around Alennia's mind.

"No!" she screamed silently. "This was different! _He_ was different!"

But the unrelenting voice in her mind repeated the word, heedless of her desperate pleas.

Traitor.

"I'm not a traitor!" Alennia thought desperately. "He saved my life. That is all. That is where it ends."

Traitor.

Alennia rose and slammed one fist into a tree trunk.

"No!" she shrieked silently.

And the voice was silent. But although the word no longer echoed around her brain like a heartbeat, it was forever tattooed upon her soul.

She let out a rattling breath, and sank back down to where she had been sitting, exhausted, both mentally and physically.

She did not see the wise pair of eyes watching her. The eyes that had woken at the sensation of someone watching the encampment from the woods. The eyes that had watched Alennia throughout the night. The eyes that were beginning to comprehend.

* * *

**A/N –** Sorry it's such a short chapter! I'll give you a nice long one next time, alright? Many thanks to MedievalWarriorPrincess – I think it is safe to say I owe you everything about this story (and Where Are All The Ragged Heroes?) at the moment. So thank you – and soon my life will be back on track and I won't be writing such short chapters! 


	13. It's a Woman

**Chapter Thirteen: It's a Woman**

There were times, Tristan thought moodily, when he was damn glad he was a scout. Almost a month had passed since he had left Alennia in the forest, but every day he could feel the place, like a brand, where her fingers had burned his cheek with their caressing touch.

He knew the others had noticed a change in him. He had noticed a change in himself. Slowly he was distancing himself from them, withdrawing more and more, spending increasing amounts of time patrolling and less time with the group.

Tristan didn't even know why he was retreating from his friends and comrades so much. It was something to do with them not understanding. But then again, even he didn't fully understand.

He didn't understand why the slightest touch could have been imprinted on his heart forever. He didn't understand why leaving had torn his heart in two. He didn't understand why every dream he had now had a lithe woman, with dark hair and enchanting eyes, in it. He had never dreamed before _she _had come along, but now she seemed to be haunting his every footstep, and the things that disturbed Tristan most, he decided, was that he didn't particularly mind.

* * *

Dagonet rode, also pensively, as he watched the retreating form of Tristan in front of him. Something had changed about that man, he decided. It was as if he had built some sort of armour around him, protecting him from something, though Dagonet could not work out what it was.

Lancelot, having noticed Dagonet's thoughtful expression, pushed his horse forwards to ride beside the quiet giant. Dagonet turned his head to acknowledge Lancelot's company, but neither man spoke for some time. It was Lancelot who first broke the easy-going silence.

"It's a woman," he shrugged.

"You know?" Dagonet asked, turning to study Lancelot's profile.

"No," Lancelot conceded. "But I know what a man in his state looks like."

"But he's never around the garrison any more," Dagonet pointed out.

"Avoiding her?" Lancelot suggested.

There was a short silence, before Dagonet spoke again, his words careful and measured.

"Unless she's not at the garrison," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Lancelot turned to look at Dagonet, shock on his face. "You don't mean…?"

"A Woad," Dagonet said grimly, nodding.

"He wouldn't be that stupid," Lancelot protested.

"You never know…" Dagonet left it hanging.

Suddenly, Lancelot's mind was a whirl of doubts. Tristan volunteering to scout when it really wasn't necessary, the long absences and sudden return with no explanation, his increasingly short temper and irrational behaviour.

Lancelot glanced over to Dagonet. "Do you think we should tell Arthur?" he asked.

Dagonet shrugged. "You know Arthur better than me. How will he take it?"

Lancelot was torn for a moment. When he did speak, his voice was full of indecision. "Well, you know Arthur isn't one for taking unnecessary risks. He'd probably stop letting Tristan off on his own."

"By the looks of the state he's in, Tristan would probably ignore that order," Dagonet mused thoughtfully.

"But if he's putting all of us at risk," Lancelot said in an agonised voice.

Dagonet glanced over at the usually decisive Lancelot and grinned. "Well if you don't have the guts to tell Arthur…" he left it hanging, knowing it was all the instigation Lancelot needed.

Spitting with indignation, Lancelot threw a foul glance at the chuckling Dagonet, and pushed his horse sharply forwards to catch up with Arthur.

Arthur was, as always, riding at the head of the column, and looked curiously at Lancelot as he rode up.

"What's eaten you?" he asked enquiringly, noticing Lancelot's scowl.

"Nothing," Lancelot answered shortly and they rode in silence for a moment, as Lancelot risked a glance back at Dagonet, who was watching with mock innocence.

Turning his back deliberately on the amused face of Dagonet, Lancelot began. "It's about Tristan."

"Oh?" the Roman asked, raising one eyebrow.

"You've noticed he's been acting a little…strangely lately?"

"Yes."

Deciding that Arthur was not going to get any more cooperative, Lancelot ploughed straight into the subject. "I…I think he may have gotten himself involved with a woman. A Woad woman," Lancelot said, eyeing Arthur nervously.

"And that's why you're so worried?"

"Well, he may be compromising his own, let alone our safety."

"I don't think you've got too much to worry about," Arthur said gently.

Detecting something in his friend's voice, Lancelot looked over sharply. "You know something, something you're not telling me!" His brows furrowed as he tried to read the impassive face of his commander. "You know who she is!" he finally said.

"I do," Arthur said, nodding.

There was an expectant silence on Lancelot's part, and when he realised he would have to beat every scrap of information out of his commander, he burst forth impatiently.

"So?"

"She is a woman," Arthur said, nodding sagely.

"A Woad?"

"Yes," Arthur concurred.

Lancelot glanced over at Arthur, and seeing the smile playing around the corners on his mouth on his otherwise inexpressive face, he realised that he was being teased.

"Arthur! Who is she?"

Arthur grinned openly this time, enjoying his friend's annoyance.

"As you said my friend, she is a woman. And a Woad."

"Arthur!"

The Roman laughed, and grinned fondly at Lancelot. "You have no idea how easy to wind you up it is, my friend."

Lancelot just scowled at Arthur, making him laugh even harder.

"She's the commander of the Wolf Clan: the ones that fight the Saxons," he finally relented.

"What's she like?" Lancelot asked pensively, chewing over this morsel of information.

"Very pretty. Long, dark hair. Enchanting eyes: dark as thunder sometimes, but a pale chestnut colour at others. She's thin, agile, obviously trusted by Merlin, and knows how to handle weapons."

"How do you know all this?"

"I watched them when they met once. She was a representative of Merlin. Tristan was my representative. Merlin and I talked for hours, but those two never took their eyes off each other, or said a word to each other, until the end."

"Was that their first meeting?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't think so, but I don't know when they'd have met otherwise."

"Tristan's always off on his own," Lancelot pointed out.

"True," Arthur conceded. "But don't worry about them. They're both too sensible to do anything foolish."

"You're not going to say anything to him? Lancelot asked curiously.

"Why should I?" Arthur was genuinely surprised. "He has decided not to tell us for a reason, and I trust him well enough to make that choice."

Lancelot sighed slightly. "But…?"

"No," Arthur said, more firmly this time. "You are not going to go sticking your overly long nose in where it doesn't concern you."

"Do I have a long nose?" Lancelot asked in a hurt voice, tugging at the offending body part thoughtfully.

Arthur laughed, and shook his head in mock despair.

* * *

**A/N –** there you go guys! A nice long chapter to compensate for the last one being so short. Again, thank you to everyone who reviewed. Slowly my ideas are beginning to come together over what's happening to my hero and heroine (!), well, Tristan's not exactly mine, but what wouldn't I give for him! Sorry, quietly drooling all over my keyboard. What was I saying…? Oh yeah, one thing – do you think I should brush over their separation, and get them to meet up in the next chapter or so, with that wonderfully useful tagline –_two years later_, or should I write bits about them during their separation? I know that there's at least one, maybe two chapters that I have to write about Alennia before they can meet up again, but I'm not sure whether I should stretch that out even further. Please give your ideas! I live on them : ) 


	14. His Name is Tristran

**Chapter Fourteen: His Name Is Tristan**

Alennia woke, screaming.

It was _those_ dreams again. Dreams she hadn't had since the first few days after the Saxon raid. Dreams in which she could see the blood, hear the screams, so vividly that she was back there – a frightened child, cowering from the men killing her kin.

The dreams, or rather, nightmares, had haunted her for the first few nights, but then, mercifully, they had suddenly stopped. And now they had started again, and Alennia knew that if they continued, she would be a shivering wreck in a few days: on the point of exhaustion, both mentally and physically, but too terrified to sleep.

Not the way the leader of the Clan of the Wolf should be behaving.

And now, in the cold night air, as her sobs eventually began to subside, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, shivering uncontrollably, she heard soothing words murmured in her ear, a warm blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a comforting hand smoothing her hair down.

Alennia looked up to find Armelle there. The older woman looked at Alennia not with pity, not even with sympathy, but with empathy. And Alennia slowly began to relax. There was not a person under her command who had not gone through the hell that she had done. There was rarely a night when distant sobs, sometimes even screams were heard. These were people who had suffered, and they clung to each other for support, because no one else could even begin to comprehend the sheer horror of all they had seen.

Alennia finally managed a shaky laugh. "Not a very good leader, am I, to get frightened by mere dreams?"

"Dreams are often, if not always, worse than the reality. You know this."

Alennia gave Armelle a lopsided smile. "What would I do without you?" she asked weakly.

"Probably blame yourself for everything!"

"Probably."

"Sleep now," Armelle said gently. "They will not return tonight."

Alennia looked at her with mistrustful eyes, but the older woman pulled the blankets up around her, and Alennia submitted, and let herself return to sleep with Armelle's soothing voice humming beside her.

Watching her sleep, Armelle was struck by just how young she was. Not that there weren't those younger than her fighting: indeed, Armelle knew that there were those who had hardly seen their twelfth summer among the clan, and yet fought with the same ferocity as those twice, three times their age.

And yet Alennia led them all. A whole clan's lives rested in her young hands. She could not be much older than twenty, probably younger, Armelle estimated, and for a child of that age to bear such a great burden was not an easy task.

The older woman sighed, and smoothed the sleeping girl's hair back. For if what she thought was true, leadership was not the only burden that she had to carry.

* * *

Armelle walked just behind Alennia, and, as ever, she was worrying about her leader. Alennia was becoming increasingly pale and withdrawn. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and her face wore a tired, hagged look.

Time and again Armelle had tried to persuade Alennia to get some sleep, but she would insist on staying up on watch all night. If Armelle tried to push the subject Alennia would get angry and demand to know who led the clan. Her temper was getting progressively shorter, and Armelle knew she would have to do something about it sooner or later.

Alennia was all-too aware of Armelle's constant proximity to her. She knew she was getting angry irrationally, and while afterwards she felt guilty for snapping at people who were only trying to help her, she could not seem to help herself.

It all came down to cowardice. An ugly word, Alennia though, for an ugly emotion. But it was true. She was afraid to face the nightmares that then haunted her even when she was awake. She knew she could not continue without sleeping forever, but putting off the inevitable gave her some strength, and she lived for the hope that when she finally collapsed with exhaustion, she would be too tired to dream.

And yet was she too live like this forever? She was a coward, as well as a traitor, and it was her own self-loathing that made her push those closest to her away, and lash out at them. Guilt would overtake her for hours afterwards, but she was still too proud to admit that she had been wrong, and so an uneasy stalemate ensued.

* * *

And so it was with partial shock and relief that Alennia heard Armelle proposing to go for a short walk 'to investigate the area they would be camping in' as she put it. Glad that she would have the opportunity to apologise to Armelle without havening to make the first move, Alennia agreed readily, and the two women walked away from the camp.

They walked in an uneasy silence, until hey were well out of earshot of the camp, and then Armelle finally spoke.

"Alennia," she said, and even that took Alennia by surprise. Usually Armelle was the soul of courtesy, and never before had she called her by her name. "You are my leader, and I accept that I have no right to tell you what to do, but here it is. If you throw me out of the clan, so be it, but there are some things you need to be told."

Alennia leaned back against a tree, too tired to respond to Armelle's statement.

"One," Armelle began, "You need to sleep. There will be nights when you have nightmares, and there will be nights when you don't. You will kill all of us if you try to make decisions in the state you are in now."

That shook Alennia up a bit, but she remained silent, and Armelle continued.

"Two: no matter how low an opinion you have of yourself, these people will follow you to death if you ask it of them. Give them the honour of believing in what they're fighting for. Let them think you believe in yourself, even if you do not."

She turned to study Alennia, and the two remained silent for some time. Alennia was simply too exhausted to argue, and Armelle was assessing how safe it would be to continue with her next and final point. Finally deciding from her commander's silence that she was not going to get thrown out of the clan, she continued.

"And the last thing, is that I want you to trust me."

Alennia raised her weary eyes inquisitively to Armelle's face.

"I know that there is something going on that you are not telling me about," Armelle explained. "I saw him come to the camp a few weeks ago, and I do not know what he said, but I know that since then you have been struggling against something. I ask you to trust me enough to tell me what it is that troubles you."

Alennia stood still in shock for a moment, before recovering her suprise and replying. "You would despise me if you knew," Alennia said weakly.

"If I am going to judge you, I would have done so already," Armelle said in her ever-practical voice.

Alennia stood in silence for a moment, bringing her hands up to wipe her eyes wearily. Armelle had just decided that she was not going to be answered, when Alennia finally spoke.

"It is a knight," she said bluntly.

"What is he to you?"

Alennia brought her head up sharply. She had not been expecting that question. She shrugged lightly. "He saved my life once. I have met him a few times since then. He is an acquaintance, nothing more."

Armelle studied Alennia's ravaged face.

"Tell me," she said gently.

There was a short silence before she got her answer. "I love him!" Alennia burst forth savagely. "I love him and I don't even want to! I can't show any weakness, I have to keep my senses while deep down, where no one can hear me, I am screaming." Tears were streaming down her face at this point. Tears full of anger and pain.

Armelle stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around the woman who shuddered as she wept. Alennia stiffened as Armelle embraced her, but after a moment she relaxed, unable to fight any more.

"And him?" Armelle asked after a while.

"Oh it doesn't matter!" Alennia said despairingly. "He's a knight. An enemy. It would make it easier if he didn't care about me, because then giving him up would not be so painful."

Armelle smoothed Alennia's hair down as she cradled her.

"And now he's gone to the other side of the country, and I probably won't see him for years. Maybe never again. But something inside me won't give up hoping."

She paused and her breathing became slowly less ragged.

"The day I met him, the nightmares stopped. And now he has left me again, they have started up again!" she looked imploringly at Armelle, as if seeking an answer.

"I think," Armelle said, drying Alennia's cheeks gently. "That you are dreaming because of all the burdens you carry. And I think that if you know that I am supporting you, then they will cease and you will no longer feel like you cannot continue."

"Really?" Alennia said in an imploring voice.

Of course not! Armelle thought like saying. How am I supposed to know why you are dreaming? You only need to think that you will be better and you will be. How I am meant to know how a lover's mind works?

But she only said, "Yes, of course. Now come. Get some sleep. Then you will be able to lead your people and they will respect you for that."

Alennia nodded meekly, and complied as Armelle led her back to the camp and tucked her up under her blankets. And when she was comfortable and warm, with her eyes closed and the ghost of a smile on her face, she whispered four words, so soft that Armelle had to strain to catch them.

"His name is Tristan."


	15. A Bleeding Heart

**Chapter Fifteen: A Bleeding Heart**

Alennia looked around the ravaged battleground. Her face wore a sunken expression, that of one who had lost much, and yet knew that more was to be lost. Another battle with the Saxons. Another slaughter of her people.

In one season, her clan had been ripped apart. For two years they had fought the Saxons, for two years they had never experienced he bitterness of defeat, and now, slowly, Alennia was coming to know that it was inevitable.

The Saxon raiding parties were getting bigger, fiercer, and slowly but surely, Alennia now knew that a time would come when they could no longer beat the invaders off. This time the butcher's bill had come to thirty-four. A horrendous number of losses for such a small clan, and yet as men and women were killed, more arrived each day to step into the gap.

There was Manat, Alennia saw, tending to a small cut on Bari's cheek. Despite the horror and grief that surrounded them, Alennia could not help but smile at the two of them. Bari was only thirteen when Alennia had first met her: in the time she had known the girl, she had watched her begin to lose her childish figure, and she was now blossoming into a beautiful woman, and Alennia perfectly aware that Manat, only a couple of years older than Bari, was not immune to her charm.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" came a familiar voice from behind Alennia's shoulder. "Children falling in love for the first time."

Alennia turned to see Armelle watching, a smile playing on her lips.

"Yes," she replied simply.

Manat, as if conscious of the eyes on him, looked quickly up to Alennia. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, asking her if she needed him. Alennia shook her head gently, and with a satisfied smile, Manat returned to Bari.

Alennia sighed.

"I know how you feel," Armelle said wearily.

"What am I going to do?" Alennia asked despairingly.

"The only thing we can do," Armelle shrugged. "Keep fighting."

"But each new battle is murder. A seven year old boy joined our ranks yesterday, Armelle, seven! Today he is dead. And that is my fault."

"No, it is the fault of the Saxons."

Alennia turned pained eyes to Armelle. "I'm leading them to death."

"It's all they ever wanted. They joined this clan so that, when they died, they could take as many Saxons as they could with them."

"It doesn't make it any easier," Alennia said.

"Nothing in this life is easy," Armelle said simply, and with that she left Alennia watch as Bari brought her fingers up to touch Manat's cheek. She watched his eyes grow wide at her touch, and she smiled as she realised that at that point, he was oblivious to everything except Bari.

And watching them, Alennia felt a pang of jealousy. They had each other. They would always have each other, and though they did not yet know it, they loved each other, and would never have to doubt that the other loved them.

Alennia closed her eyes tightly for a moment, and a familiar face swum before her. In two years the image had not faded nor changed. It was Tristan at the very first moment when she had met him. His teasing grin, the rain running down his face, the wicked gleam in his eyes. It had been four years since they had met, and Alennia had never once forgotten him for a moment. She scarcely knew him, and yet he had a hold over her that no other person in the world had.

She and Armelle had not spoken of him since the night when Alennia had broken down, but Alennia knew the old woman had not forgotten. It was in the way she looked at her sometimes, the way she phrased things, the way she was always watching, waiting for some sign that Alennia was still suffering.

And although she didn't show it, no, she wouldn't show it, she was suffering. She was suffering far more than she thought it possible. Love was draining the power within her: the power to make rational decisions, to govern her own fate. He was a weakness, a weakness that if any enemy of hers found out about would be her undoing. And yet she knew that she could not live without the memory of him, without him she was nothing.

But she would not let anyone see. She still had her pride, and that dictated that she was strong, even when she wanted nothing more than to scream, and claw at the broken earth, while her heart bled for all to see.

* * *

Tristan rode alone. Not an unusual circumstance, but for some reason he felt more alone than ever. It was being in unfamiliar territory, he decided, not knowing what was around the next bend, or behind the next tree. 

There was a time, he thought moodily, when the prospect of new country to explore would have set his heart racing. When he would have jumped at every twig snapping, and reached for his sword every time he saw the shadow of an animal. But time had made him more relaxed to scouting.

It was not that he was not alert: compared to most people he would have looked jumpy and tense, but by Tristan's standards, he was relaxed. He still would have drawn his sword before his brain had registered danger, and his eyes were constantly flicking from side to side, but the thought of an enemy lying in ambush did not instill the same fear in his heart that it had once done.

Tristan felt old. In truth he was only in his mid-twenties, but he felt so much older. He had been living a warriors life since he was old enough to wield a sword, and he knew every trick that there was.

He had fought the Woads countless times, and he knew their technique as well as he did his own. That, when you got down to it, was the root of the problem. He had always lived for the thrill of fighting: to match his skill against someone else's in a battle with stakes so high that the adrenaline running through your veins took you over.

But there was no one left among the Woads who was worthy. He head fought them all, and it was no longer a contest. Not that he always won easily, there were still some struggles, but Tristan wanted a new enemy, a fresh enemy, one that would test him once more and give him that reason to follow Arthur.

Nothing was really making any sense any more. There was a time, he thought wearily, when life was simple. There were Romans and there were Woads. Both were enemies, but only the Woads could be killed. And so he killed them. But that had changed one day on a mountainside in the pouring rain.

Those enchanting eyes had stolen his soul, and suddenly everything was complicated. And without a soul, Tristan was only living a half-life. He had retreated to the darkness, to nurse his wounds, and was slowly coming to realise that time would not heal them. The only cure he knew was miles away, and he doubted whether she even remembered him. A knight who had showed her kindness once. Was that all he was? Fate was cruel, if the woman who had stolen his soul, no, his _heart_, did not even remember his face. Yes, fate was cruel.

* * *

**A/N –** OK, sorry there isn't much talking in this chapter. I've been trying to get the characters to think over their feelings, and it's pretty hard for them to do that, (seeing as neither has anyone they particularly trust) without having them talking out loud and making them look like nutcases! 

Thank you for all your suggestions as to where it should be going – as I've got a mixed response I'll go for something in between – 2 or 3 chapters of brooding, and then, wham, dramatic reunion. Or will it be? I don't know, it's a mystery! (Please tell me you've seen Shakespeare in Love, or else I just sound like a nutcase. On second thoughts, is that so much of a lie?)

Please read and review, actually, that's a kind of stupid comment to put at the end of the chapter. I assume that you've read the chapter before you hit this point, unless, of course, you just scroll down to read my ramblings! I doubt it somehow. The Author's note is an addition to be endured, well, _my_ author's notes are!

I'm getting hyper now, so I'm going to go and try to behave. Another chapter will follow, though how soon I don't know, seeing as I have 16 GSCE mocks in the next 9 days! (No, I am not doing 16 GCSEs: we have 2 exams for all the sciences, English etc). This is soon going to be longer than the chapter, so I'm gonna go and bask in my glory…well, revise maths.

Love from the slightly (very) crazy Rachy (aka LadyOfThieves)


	16. Boys, We're Going Home

**nikkitagq** – (cool name btw), yep, you're right. I couldn't have my damsel in distress fighting, without a handsome knight's arms to swoon in, could I? I'm hoping that it will not be entirely what you expect, but then again, who knows?

**Scout Earane** – Don't you just hate it when you're on tenterhooks waiting for an update? I'll try not to disappoint. Another thing - don't be negative about your fanfic! I had a look for it the other night, but I couldn't find it, so I assume you haven't uploaded it, or maybe I'm just blind! But seriously, get it on the site – if anything, some constructive criticism will do wonders for your writing. Honestly, I've only been writing for about three, four months, and I've upped a whole grade in my English Language paper, not to mention the fact that I'm even beginning to think that perhaps I can write!

**MedievalWarriorPrincess** – I know what you mean. I'm getting a Saxon hate complex, which really isn't good, seeing as I'm half Anglo-Saxon, which, I suppose, makes me a quarter Saxon! It's nice to have a race in a film that you can hate unconditionally (sorry any Saxon lovers out there, but that's where King Arthur differs from Troy or something, in which there really isn't a goodie and a baddie (is that how you spell that btw?) anyway, where was I?) Yeah, so thanks for your wonderful reviews, though whether you'll be able to read my reply once you've been arrested for Saxon murder, I don't know!

**Ailis-70** – doesn't a bit of impending doom, death and the ultimate destruction of everything and everyone make some nice, light, after-dinner reading! Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

**the ultimate jedi** – here you go! A little bit more for you, but I really should be doing some work! Not wasting my time enjoying myself! Still, if you guys are liking it, it's not a waste of time eh?

Sorry to anyone else who's reviewed that I haven't commented on – it wasn't deliberate, but my computer's being an evil little…well, whatever evil computers are called, and it's randomly deleting e-mails.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Boys, We're Going Home**

_Two years later_

The knights were grouped around a table in the tavern, drinking and laughing noisily. Tristran was sitting in one corner, not far enough away from the others to be obvious, but just enough to make his separation from them noticeable.

The knights had been drinking steadily for several hours, and most of them were looking slightly worse for wear. Tristran, infamous for his ability to hold his drink, was still nursing his first cup of wine, drinking from it only rarely, and spending most of his time sitting in silence.

Tristran was suddenly aware of Arthur entering the smoky room, and he followed him with his eyes as he went to the bar, got a cup of wine, and made his way towards the knights. As the other knights slowly became aware of him they fell silent one by one. Arthur rarely came to drink with them, and his presence at times when they were drunk usually meant trouble.

"More bad news, Arthur?" Lancelot asked, grinning slightly, an effect of perhaps slightly too much wine.

"I'm afraid so, my friend," Arthur said. The knights watched him warily, expectant and uneasy. Arthur raised his cup to his lips, and drank deeply. The knights, all watching him, were so tense with expectation, that Tristran idly thought that they may burst.

Arthur emptied his cup, and smacked it hard down on the table. "Boys!" he said, a grin on his usually grim face. "We're going home!"

The table immediately erupted. The knights cheered and yelled. Lancelot pulled Arthur down to drink with them, and Bors shouted for more wine. Tristran, however, did not join in their celebrations, but instead rose, unnoticed, and left the room quietly.

Once alone he made his way to the stables, where he stood, stroking the neck of his mare.

"We're going home love," he whispered to her, caressing her muzzle gently.

Why wasn't he back with the other knights, getting drunk, and celebrating? Something in him was drawing him away from company, making him seek solitude and peace. He had never used to be like this, but recently he had shied away from companionship, and sought isolation. He sighed, exasperated. What was he coming to?

Tristran heard a step behind him, and spun around, angry with the intruder, but his features softened slightly when he saw Dagonet there. Dagonet was one of the few men that Tristran really respected, though out of all of the knights, Tristran knew the least about him.

"What is it?" Dagonet said bluntly, never one to waste words.

"Nothing!" Tristran snapped shortly.

Dagonet remained where he was, his face placid.

"What?" Tristran asked curtly when Dagonet did not reply.

"I was wondering how long you were going to continue lying to yourself," Dagonet said calmly.

"About what?" Tristran asked, not liking the direction the conversation was taking.

"About the reason you keep on thinking about her," Dagonet replied evenly.

Tristran's head snapped up, and he stared at Dagonet angrily for a moment, before his expression turned to one of pain, and he looked down.

"You know?" he asked faintly.

"I've noticed."

"So does everybody know now," Tristran said bitingly. "That Tristran has been chasing around after a Woad?"

"They are your friends and comrades. They're meant to notice things like that."

Tristran fell silent, and looked away from Dagonet, ashamed at his words, but unable to say he didn't mean it.

"If things were different, perhaps…" Tristran began. "It's no use. She's a Woad, I'm a Sarmatian."

"That might not matter to her."

"That's the point!" Tristran said angrily. "If I asked, I think…I _know _she'd follow me. But I can't do that to her!"

"Why not?"

"Why can't I ruin her life?" Tristran asked bitterly. "Look at me, Dagonet. Really look. What could I possibly have to offer to a woman who leads a Clan, is well respected by her people, a woman who has Merlin as her patron! What can I offer against that?"

"Your heart."

"And what is that worth?" Tristran asked scornfully.

Dagonet shrugged. "I think, my friend. That you are afraid to go back."

"Maybe I am!" Tristran said, his body slumped forwards and his face hidden. "Maybe I don't want to go near temptation, for fear that I will not be strong enough to resist it."

"You may not meet her again," Dagonet offered up this small comfort.

Tristran raised his ravaged face to Dagonet. "I have to see her again," he admitted, finally defeated.

Dagonet reached out and laid one hand on Tristran's shoulder. "No matter how much, or little, we like things, they will still happen, don't fight it."

And he left Tristran brooding over his words.


	17. To the End of All Things

**A/N – **Look at me being a rebel and putting an author's note at the beginning! This is just to say that I've just realised that I've been spelling his name Tristan instead of Tristran (thank you to Scout Earane for pointing that out to me!). I'll spell it properly from here on in (I know how irritating it is to read a name spelt wrong!), and I will get around to changing it in previous chapters eventually, but I'm a lazy old git most of the time, so don't hold you breath! Anyway, on with the story!

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: To the End of All Things**

It was mid-summer. Saxons raids had been scarce that season, and Alennia knew her Clan was benefiting from the rest. They had had a few idle skirmishes already that year, but few had been injured, and, remarkably when compared to the carnage the previous two years, no one had been killed.

A cool evening breeze blew through the camp. It was quiet: not a deathly hush, but a relaxed atmosphere of calm. The evening was warm, and though the campfires had been built, they were more communal areas than for any particular warmth.

Alennia sat by her fire with Armelle, sharpening her sword. Her cloak lay discarded by her side: it was too mild to merit wearing it, and Alennia felt, for the first time in a long while, calm.

She was dressed as she always was: in a loose shirt and tight cotton trousers, and thick but supple leather boots that she had stolen from a Saxon corpse. Her hair was coiled in a neat bun, though by the end of the day, wisps of it were beginning to escape and curl down around her ears.

Armelle was stirring a stew over the fire, and Alennia watched absently as she cooked. Armelle had always loved cooking, and though the two women shared a fire most nights, Armelle always refused to let Alennia cook. Not that Alennia minded, particularly. Armelle was a good cook, and Alennia knew how much she loved the simple pleasure of preparing the evening meal, but they argued good-naturedly about it every day.

Suddenly Alennia heard someone crashing through the bushes by the camp, and a second later Manat burst into the clearing, tearing the tranquil atmosphere apart at the seams. Several members of the clan rose, worriedly, but Manat ignored them and went straight to Alennia.

She was on her feet with her sword slotted back into its scabbard at her hips before he had even reached her, and she didn't need to hear his hurried words to know that something was wrong.

"You better come and see this," he managed to say in between breaths, and a moment later Alennia and Armelle were following him out of the camp.

They made for the sea, and a few minutes later, they arrived at a high cliff overlooking the beaches, and beyond that, the grey sea.

Alennia's heart sank at what she saw.

In the bay before her were tens of Saxons warships. And on the beach were hundreds of campfires, each surrounded by tens of Saxons.

An entire army.

Suddenly the breeze no longer seemed cool and refreshing, but cold and chilling, and she wished she had her cloak with her.

Slowly she turned to Manat and Armelle. Manat looked worried, but Armelle showed no more apprehension than the thought of her stew burning.

She raised her eyebrows questioningly at Armelle and the old woman shrugged.

"It has to end sometime," she said practically.

Alennia nodded, and turned to Manat.

"I need to speak to the clan," she told him. "Have them ready when I arrive. Do not tell them what you have seen – I do not want panic to spread before I arrive."

Manat nodded, and rushed off at once in the direction of the camp. When he was gone, Alennia turned back to Armelle once more, and their eyes met. They looked at each other at that moment, not as a leader and her second, not as a wise old woman and a frightened child, not even as two friends. But as two equals.

They did not speak, for no words were needed. For once Alennia did not conceal her emotions, but let them reflect in her eyes. The two women studied each other in silence for a long time, until their deepest thoughts and fears were no longer hidden from each other.

Finally Alennia turned away, and she looked back to the beach.

"So this is where it ends," she whispered softly to herself.

"Come," Armelle said reassuringly. "You must speak to them."

* * *

Alennia looked across the assembled clan. She remembered a time, all those years ago, when she had stood before them for the first time, and implored them to follow her. She knew these people now: they were not just familiar faces any more, but people, with names, characters, traits, and histories. And they knew her. Not well, she admitted, but they did know her, and she owed them too much to lie to them. 

Alennia took a deep breath to calm her nerves.

"You have followed me for over two years," she began. "And we have killed so many Saxons together. Now an entire army of Saxons is on the beach, and I cannot ask you to follow me. I respect you too much to lie to you, and so I tell you the simple truth. There is no chance of survival against them, and so I will not ask you to fight them. But at dawn tomorrow, I shall ride into their camp. I would make such an end that the final battle of the Clan of the Wolf is spoken of for hundreds of years to come!"

Alennia was mildly surprised to see the fierce looks of approval from the people in front of her, but then she immediately felt guilty for doubting them.

"And so it is your choice. I leave before dawn tomorrow. If you would take as many Saxons as you can with you when you leave this world, then fight beside me, and I would welcome you."

There was a bloodthirsty cry of support from the Clan. A cry that swelled and rose, until Alennia was beginning to worry that the Saxons would hear them.

* * *

As the Clan began to disperse to their separate fires, Alennia sought Manat out. He was sharpening his knives, but he stood as Alennia approached. 

"Manat," she said, sitting down beside him. "We have known each other a long time, you and I, and so it is to you that I ask this final favour."

"Anything!" Manat agreed hastily.

"I will not have any child who has not seen his fifteenth summer fighting tomorrow. You must lead them away from this place, for it will not be safe for them here once we are defeated."

Manat shook his head stubbornly. "I'm fighting," he insisted.

"Manat, you agreed to do anything I asked of you. If needs be, I can demand that you do it."

He looked at her with wilful eyes, but Alennia met his gaze with an equally stubborn one.

"Make sure they are ready as soon as possible," she said, giving him no choice. "You will leave when the moon has fully risen."

And she left him, giving him no chance to argue.

"That was well done," Armelle commented, melting out of the shadows to join Alennia's side as she left the disgruntled form of Manat.

"Do you have to do that? You always make me jump!" Alennia complained.

"You have plans for that boy?" Armelle asked.

Alennia shrugged. "Only so far as to stop him getting himself killed. He's got something to live for."

"Bari?"

"Among other things."

Alennia sat back down by her fire, and proceeded to oil her sword. Armelle sat down beside her, and poked at the fire thoughtfully.

"He might disobey you," she said doubtfully.

"He wont," Alennia said knowingly. "He knows that he has too much to live for to throw it all away on a battle he won't survive. And when Bari is told he's to be taking them to safety, she won't let him leave her."

Armelle laughed. "You seem to have it all planned!"

"I won't have children dying because of me," Alennia said forcefully. She sighed slightly. "I better go and make sure they're packing."

"You stay here," Armelle said, putting a hand out to stop her rising. "I'll go."

Alennia looked enquiringly at her, and Armelle shrugged.

"You get some sleep. I'll wake you before they go, and then I can get a bit of rest before dawn tomorrow."

Alennia saw the sense in this, and so she submitted, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders, and leaning back wearily against a tree. She closed her eyes, and the memory of a face came to her mind unbidden.

She hadn't thought about him. Not that she had forgotten him, but she had simply put him to the back of her mind: she had enough to worry about without her emotions all over the place, but as she was falling asleep, she wondered absently whether he would even remember her once she was gone.

* * *

**A/N –** well, that was one of the hardest chapters I have ever had to write! Oh yeah, and the title of the chapter – the end of all things – is the title of a piece of music (and a scene, I think) in Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. I know, I know, I'm a thief, but then what do you expect from LadyOfThieves? 

**lucillaq **– thank you for your comments! I know that there wasn't enough speech getting in there, that will soon be remedied! And thank you for your idea about Alennia and Arthur: ideas are swirling around my rather too clouded brain even as we speak!

I actually haven't really got much else to say about this chapter – it's pretty self-explanatory I hope – impending death and destruction with a little bit about Tristran at the end to remind you that I haven't totally forgotten about him! I'm beginning to ramble on now (I've really got into a habit of doing that haven't I?) and so I'm off to do some physics revision actually. Isn't my life one long continuous thrill!


	18. It All Ends Today

**Chapter Eighteen: It All Ends Today**

It was a few hours before dawn, and Alennia had just watched as most of her clan left her. Manat had dutifully led the children away, with a message to Merlin, explaining Alennia's decision. Following him had gone twenty or so people, those who had decided to go for life over death. And in her heart, Alennia rejoiced to see so many leave. The less deaths in the morning's massacre, the better.

Alennia walked past the fires, swapping jokes and accepting tots of alcohol, carefully hoarded for moments such as this, feeling the edges on swords, telling the men and women it would not be so bad.

"Don't wear your helmet tomorrow, the Saxons might see your face and die laughing!"

Alennia heard the joke directed at someone across the campfire, and smiled to herself. The stale jokes were as much a part of the battle as the swords that would begin to shed blood at first light.

She listened to men boasting of the deeds they would perform the next day, and knew that their words covered their fear. Others, those who had not fought before, asked, more quietly, what it would be like. Alennia smiled, and told them they would see in a few hours, but it would not be as bad as they feared.

A quiet voice in her mind reminded her of the chaos she would have to control, but she shrugged this thought away, and continued to laugh and joke with the men and women grouped around the fires.

And then, when Alennia judged that dawn was an hour away, she roused the men and women. Shaking some roughly from sleep, others, the ones who were awake, she pulled up, sorted into ranks, inspected them and gave the nervous faces a comforting grin.

Finally, when the forty-eight men and women stood before her in ordered lines, she stepped back from them to survey them. And what a sight they were! Alennia felt like her heart was bursting with pride, for what could be better to die beside these men and women?

"I said it last night, I say it again today. Let us make this such an end that the name of the Clan of the Wolf will be whispered in hushed voices, for who would dare break its spell by speaking it aloud?"

There was a bloodthirsty roar from the clan, and Alennia glanced across to Armelle. The old woman had a gentle smile on her face, and Alennia had no regrets about what was to come.

"Let us make this such an end!" she repeated, and turning, walked out of the clearing.

Armelle was following; just by her shoulder, and behind her the clan was assembling into a fighting formation. Alennia stopped them just short of the tree line, and she and Armelle went forwards to do a reconnaissance of the area. They watched the still-sleeping army, and Alennia felt a small hope rise in her breast. Perhaps, she thought vaguely, they had a chance against sleeping men. But turning to Armelle, she knew they didn't.

"It all ends today," Alennia whispered softly.

"It is an honour to die beside you," Armelle said with a smile.

"An honour I feel also," Alennia returned.

The two looked at each other for some time, and then Alennia breathed in deeply. "Well," she said in a practical voice. "Shall we finish it?"

* * *

Alennia gave a roar. A roar of rage, of anger and of defiance. And her people answered. The cry swelled and rose, and then Alennia was running, screaming with pure hatred as she crashed into the Saxon lines, followed only seconds later by the rest of the Clan.

They stormed through the camp, massacring all in their path. The sleeping Saxons did not have time to put their hands to their swords before they were killed, brutally and efficiently. Alennia and the clan had made their way to the centre of the encampment before any form of organisation on the part of the Saxons had been reached, and they were suddenly no longer killing, but fighting for their lives.

Alennia and Armelle fought back-to-back, years of close combat fighting at each other's side coming into play. Suddenly Alennia no longer needed to think. Not that she could. The noise was deafening, and the battlefield was chaos. It was hard to tell friend from foe, and the Saxons just kept coming in a never-ending stream of death and destruction.

Alennia was still shouting, and she could hear Armelle screaming in rage at the attacking Saxons. Alennia did not feel the growing number of cuts on her body, nor the red blood trickling down her skin, not the throbbing from the freshly bruised areas. She felt nothing but hatred, saw nothing but Saxons to kill, heard nothing but her own yells of defiance.

For all the men that Alennia and her valiant Clan had killed, more kept on coming. The Saxon warlords could afford to keep on throwing men's lives at the Woads, knowing that they could not fight forever. And around her, Alennia saw Woads lying among the dead and dying.

Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, even as she shouted obscenities at the men she was killing. And as she fought, she began to feel the first ache in her bones, the first sting as her skin was nicked by Saxon blades, the first feeling of exhaustion.

And yet she fought on. In the centre of the Saxon encampment was a ring of dead and dying men, and in the centre of it, stood Alennia and Armelle, still fighting together, although rivulets of blood streamed down both of their bodies, and exhaustion and grief played clearly behind their hate-filled eyes.

And then Alennia became aware of a path being cut through the Saxons around her, and suddenly a man, a huge man, appeared in front of her. The Saxon Warlord. He was hefting his enormous blade in his hands, grinning evilly at Alennia.

So this was it.

Alennia drew her blade up, ready to attack the man, when suddenly she was pushed aside. Armelle, giving a scream of defiance, heaved Alennia to one side, and threw herself at the giant of a man.

Alennia stumbled, tripping over bodies, but before she could register what had happened, she was attacked, and was once again fighting for her life. The Saxons kept on coming, giving Alennia no chance to go to her friend's aid, but she could see that Armelle was slowly being broken down.

Tears were streaming down her face now, and as she pulled her sword from a Saxon's chest, she turned to see a blade pierce Armelle's neck.

"No!" Alennia shouted, a heartbreaking scream of pain and loss, as Armelle's knees buckled, and she fell, dead before she hit the floor.

Alennia turned grief-stricken eyes to the man who had killed Armelle, and had the Saxon been anything but a seasoned warrior, he would have quailed under the hatred that burned brightly in Alennia's eyes.

With a low, animal snarl, Alennia attacked, driving the man back with her sheer ferocity. They fought on for some time, Alennia's hatred matching the Saxon's skill. But Alennia had been up for most of the night, and fighting for several hours. The Saxon's flesh was uncut, whereas Alennia had a thousand scratches and wounds in her skin.

The Saxons had formed a circle around her and their leader, and Alennia realised with a sickening jolt that she must be the only one left alive. This thought gave her courage, and she leapt at the Saxon, her blade swinging dangerously close to his unprotected neck.

And then Alennia almost fell forwards as something impacted in her back. She struggled to regain her footing, hefting her blade to prepare for the oncoming attack that never came. She looked up to see her opponent swearing at a man with a bow behind her, and Alennia reached around herself to find the shaft of an arrow emerging from her back. She felt no pain, although the arrow had embedded dangerously close to her spine. With a guttural cry she twisted the shaft so that it broke, and, dropping it to the floor, resumed her fighting stance.

The Saxon gave her a look of both approval and amusement, and raised his blade too, in a mock salute, before attacking with a power far greater than anything Alennia had yet experienced. And she realised that he had only been playing with her. She did not have a chance as she was forced backwards.

She desperately tried to parry the fast strokes, but tripped over the body of a Saxon, and fell to her knees, her sword skittering away across the ground and out of her reach.

Alennia suddenly realised that there was no escape. She could no longer cheat death. And so she turned her face up to meet the Saxon, her eyes showing no fear. And as she stared defiantly up at the Saxon, she felt an immense freedom, knowing that tomorrow she would rise and fly, and never want for anything.

And as she stared at death, she only had one regret. The only thing she had ever wanted was to die in _his_ arms looking into his eyes, knowing that she was loved. But that was not to be. She was alone, and only moment from joining Armelle once more.

* * *

**A/N –** well? Don't you just love cliffhangers! Muah ha ha! (evil laugh btw). How long shall I hold you in suspense? A day? A week? Or longer. Maybe I'll go on holiday tomorrow and not come back until after Christmas! No, I won't. The next instalment will be as soon as I write it!

Oh yeah, and the title – It All Ends Today, is from Moulin Rouge, which is a brilliant film, if anyone hasn't seen it. It's one of those films that you actually cannot help yourself crying every single time.


	19. Eternal Saviour

**A/N – **Well here you go, the long awaited instalment! Wow, I'm getting seriously big-headed aren't I! So here's the deal – you read andreview, and I _might_ let Alennia live long enough for Tristran to get that kiss of her that she still owes him. Deal? Got for it then!

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Eternal Saviour**

Tristran rode through the forests at a leisurely pace, Dagonet beside him. Tristran breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of summer, of the sea, but most of all, of home.

"Good to be back?" Dagonet commented, grinning sideways at his companion.

"Heavenly," Tristan breathed.

The two years he had been away had felt like a lifetime. This was his home, where he was born, and for the last two years he had come to understand what the knights had to endure for fifteen years.

They were returning along the coastline, and, as ever, Tristran rode ahead as a scout. This time, however, Dagonet accompanied him. Tristran did not know why he had decided to ask Dagonet if he would ride with him, but he had, and so they rode through the trees half a mile or so from the sea.

Dagonet watched with a smile on his face, as Tristran progressively grew more and more content. Dagonet wondered idly why he had been asked to accompany him. It was rare, no, it was exceptional for Tristran to ask anyone to scout with him: he complained when Arthur insisted, and would give his companion black looks for the entire trip, but today, he was in an unusually happy mood.

"If this is how I'll behave when I return home, I think I'd rather not go back," Dagonet commented.

Tristran grinned at him, unable to be annoyed, and Dagonet laughed out loud in sheer astonishment. Tristran smiling was an uncommon occurrence the in the past two years.

They heard a noise behind them, Tristran slightly before Dagonet, and both knights turned to see Bors ride along the path towards them, his horse's hooves pounding on the dry earth.

"Artorius sent me to make sure you weren't getting into any trouble," he informed them, pulling up beside Dagonet.

"And why would we be?" Dagonet asked pleasantly.

"Since when does Tristran invite anyone to ride with him?" Bors demanded bluntly.

"I…!" Tristran began in an aggrieved voice, but fell silent and shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "You're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm right!" Bors said in an injured voice. "When am I not right?"

"You really want to know?" Dagonet asked.

"I most certainly do!" Bors challenged.

"Well," Dagonet began. "There was that time you told us you'd never let Vanora get her claws around you. And when you told Arthur that you'd stake Lancelot's life on the Woads attacking from the east, and they came from the west. And then the time that you…"

* * *

_Two hours later_

"…And when you said that nobody could beat you in a fist fight and Gawain flattened you in less than a minute, and…" Dagonet was still talking in an amiable voice, although Tristran by this time was looking distinctly bored, and Bors' face was growing darker and darker by every passing minute.

All three men heard the sounds of battle at the same time, and no communication was needed between them: Dagonet instantly fell silent, and they moved together towards the noise. They reached the point where the trees met the open land, and could see a battle raging between Woads and the invading Saxons on the sands, about half a mile away.

"Not our fight," Dagonet commented.

"The more dead Woads the better," Bors agreed, looking uninterestedly at the melee.

Tristran however, did not speak. His eye had been caught by a dark cloak: a cloak covering a familiar frame. Breathlessly, he watched the figure turn to see a Woad woman killed, and even from that distance he could sense the grief and anger in her. And then Tristran's heart stopped, as the familiar figure turned on the Saxon who had killed the Woad woman and throw herself at him, attacking with a ferocity that Tristran did not believe possible.

Dagonet turned to say something to Tristran, but stopped abruptly when he saw his friend's ashen face. Tristran's mind was in turmoil: all he could think was that after so long he had finally found her, only to see her cut down before his very eyes.

To both Dagonet and Bors' surprise, he suddenly kicked his horse forwards and charged straight into the battle. Dagonet turned to Bors and raised his eyebrows slightly. Bors laughed, and the two followed their friend into the fight.

* * *

Alennia fought with fading strength, nothing but her hatred of the entire Saxon race keeping her alive. But quite suddenly the Saxon attacked with his full strength, forcing Alennia backwards, and she suddenly realised that he had been toying with her, prolonging her inevitable death. 

As she stumbled backwards under the viciousness of the assault, Alennia tripped over a Saxon body and fell to he knees, her sword going sliding over the ground and out of reach.

The Saxon loomed above her, raising his sword for the deathblow, and Alennia raised her head, proud and unflinching, meeting death with courage and scorn, readying herself for the inevitable.

"So this is where is ends," she thought, somewhat bitterly. "On my knees in front of Saxon scum"

And yet the final blow never came. Suddenly the Saxon stiffened, and Alennia saw a blade slide easily out of his stomach. The big man looked at it with something close to surprise, and then slid off the blade and landed, face down, beside Alennia.

She looked up to see a familiar face looking down on her in horror. Tristran immediately knelt beside her, thanking the Gods she was yet living.

"You seem to be making a habit of saving me," Alennia said in a weak voice, the willpower and determination to show no weakness before her enemies that had been keeping her alive, slowly fading.

"If you'd stop getting into trouble I wouldn't need to," Tristran told her gruffly, ignoring Bors who was cutting down Saxons in a nonchalant fashion behind him.

Tristran tore her top back to expose the wound on her shoulder. Alennia tried to protest and pull her shirt back up.

"Shut up!" Tristran told her with all his usual politeness.

Alennia looked up at him through failing eyes and laughed feebly, for it was so like him to rebuke her like that. Tristran was in the middle of binding the wound when he felt Alennia's body go limp, and her head slid sideways. For one horrendous moment he thought she was dead, but then he felt her breathing, so weak it was almost undetectable, but it was there at least.

"Get her out of here!" Dagonet shouted at Tristran, and the knight looked up to see the Woads retreating.

He picked the unconscious form of Alennia up, and swung up into his saddle, holding her carefully in front of him. With Dagonet and Bors at his side, he galloped for the trees, leaving a camp full of bewildered Saxons, suddenly left without an enemy.

* * *

**A/N –** Sorry it's been so long in coming guys – I have been battling to get any revision done, what with hockey matches (why, someone please tell me, are they in the middle of our exams!) etc. Anyway, it's here, and I hope it doesn't diasappoint. Please, please review, I love you guys so much when you do – it honestly makes this worth doing! 


	20. Don't Let Go

**Chapter Twenty: Don't Let Go**

To their credit, the knights did not over-react to the arrival of Dagonet, Bors and Tristran with Alennia cradled against his body. Arthur raised one eyebrow slightly as they arrived, and rounded on Bors.

"I thought I told you to keep them out of trouble?" Arthur asked, the flicker of a laugh in his voice.

Bors' grin widened.

"She won't survive the journey to the wall," Dagonet cut in, motioning to the unconscious form of Alennia in Tristran's arms. "Unless I can treat her immediately."

Arthur looked at him for a moment, and then snapped into action. "Gawain," he said, his voice resuming the air of authority that came so naturally to him. "Get a fire going. Galahad, sort out the packs: make sure they have somewhere to treat the girl. Lancelot, we'll be staying here tonight. I want you to scout around the perimeter and check the area out. Oh, and bring something back for us to eat."

Gawain scowled, and muttered something about Lancelot getting the best jobs, but the knights obeyed their leaders commands without thought, despite their sullen, but good-natured grumbling.

"Gawain," Dagonet said, swinging down from his horse and rummaging in his packs for his medical kit. "I need hot water."

Gawain complied, and soon Alennia was laid on a few blankets in the centre of the clearing, close to the fire, with her head resting in Tristran's lap, as Dagonet bent over her, examining her wounds with gentle hands.

Tristran was still trembling as he smoothed Alennia's hair. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask Dagonet. Would she be alright? Would she even live? If she did, would she be the same? But the doubts just echoed around his brain, unvoiced.

Even as Dagonet bound the wounds, stitched the cuts, and applied salves to the skin that was already beginning to bruise, he knew he had never seen anyone so bad as the girl who lay before him. His mind told him that she would not make it, but one glance at Tristran's face told him more than a thousand words. His friend would not be able to cope with the loss. And so Dagonet fought, fought for a life that was rapidly being taken away from him.

And then he found the arrowhead. He had almost overlooked it: a small wound among countless others, but his heart sank as he saw its position. Right beside the spine. The slightest slip of his hand as he removed it, and it could paralyse her forever.

Tristran was not unaware of the terse, worried look that had come into Dagonet's face when he saw the final wound. "What is it?" he asked curtly.

Dagonet looked up, and suddenly noticed that it was beginning to grow dark. The other knights were grouped around, sharpening weapons or cooking, and Dagonet had spent all afternoon tending to the girl's numerous wounds.

"There's an arrowhead in there," he said, indicating the cut. "It's going to be very dangerous to get it out."

"Why?" Tristran asked sharply.

"I could paralyse her."

Tristran blanched, but he made no comment, save to nod slightly.

Dagonet moved to where he could see the cut better, and glanced up to meet Tristran's gaze. "Hold her tightly."

Tristran's grip on Alennia tightened, and Dagonet very carefully pushed the flap of skin away to reveal the piece of metal, buried deep in her flesh. Slowly, carefully he pushed his fingers into the wound, searching for a hold on the arrow.

Alennia stirred somewhere between blissful oblivion and consciousness, and Dagonet knew that in her semi-conscious state, she could feel the pain as much as if she were fully awake. Alennia twisted in Tristran's grip, and he almost lost his hold on her.

"Hold her!" Dagonet barked.

And then, suddenly, he was loosing her. Dagonet was abruptly aware that she was slowly slipping out of his reach, going somewhere that he could not pull her back from.

"Tristran!" he snapped. "We're loosing her! Call her back."

Tristran immediately knew what he meant, and put one hand to her cheek, calling her name softly.

* * *

Alennia was drowning in a sea of pain. She had never known how much a person could hurt, and she writhed, trying to escape the agony, to loosen the unrelenting grip on her shoulders that would not let her rest.

And then she saw a light. A pale light in the darkness, and as she moved towards it, the pain slowly began to diminish. She moved towards it faster now, desperately fleeing from the suffering that the darkness brought. And then she heard a voice in the darkness.

"Alennia," it called to her. "Alennia come back. Come back to us."

"No!" Alennia tried to scream, a soundless scream that echoed around her mind. "Don't make me return to the pain! Let me go! Let me go!"

"Don't let go Alennia. Never let go," the voice continued, persistent and oblivious to the indecision in Alennia's mind.

And much as she wanted to ignore the voice, she couldn't. The strange accent, the gentle but rough tone: it was all so familiar to her, and fight it as she might; Alennia knew she wasn't going to win.

* * *

Dagonet relaxed with a sigh, as he felt Alennia's heart begin to beat faster. There was sweat on her forehead, and Tristran, exhausted, gently wiped it off. As if in response to his touch, Alennia's eyes fluttered open, although no recognition registered in them, only pain.

Tristran lifted her up, and Dagonet held a cup to her lips. She drank deeply, only semi-conscious, and a few minutes later she was in a deep, drug-induced sleep.

"Alennia?" he asked Tristran.

Tristran looked up sharply, and then relaxed. "Alennia," he concurred.

"She'll sleep for the next few days," Dagonet told Tristran, carefully covering Alennia with a blanket. "It'll give her body a bit of time to heal before I attempt getting that arrowhead out again."

"Will she live?" Tristran asked bluntly.

Dagonet sighed, looking down at the now-peaceful face of the sleeping girl. "I don't know. I just don't know."

* * *

Across the clearing, Arthur sat, staring moodily into the flames of the fire. It was dark by now and the knights were settling down after their meal. Dagonet made his way wearily across to Arthur, from where he had left Tristran still cradling Alennia's head. Arthur held a bowl of stew out to Dagonet, and the big man took it gratefully, sinking down beside his commander.

"How is she?" Arthur asked, his eyes on Tristran.

Dagonet shrugged in between mouthfuls. "There's only one serious wound. But if anything kills her, it will probably be blood loss. She fought without heed for her life. Most men will guard their bodies, but she threw herself in, and has earned a thousand minor wounds. She didn't mean to survive the battle."

Dagonet sighed and looked sideways at Arthur's pensive face.

"I tell you now, Artorius. If she dies, you will loose your scout."

Arthur glanced sharply up at him, and then his gaze wandered back to Tristran.

"Then we must save her," he replied heavily.

The two men sat in companionable silence for some time, before Arthur broke the silence.

"What happened?" he asked, not in the mock accusatory he had used with Bors, but with sincerity.

Dagonet shrugged lightly. "We were riding, and heard the sounds of a battle. We rode over, to watch from the edge of the trees. On the beach were a handful of Woads, but you could scarcely see them for the Saxons. An entire army, Arthur…Bors made some comment about it being good for us if the Woads and Saxons killed each other. I looked over to say something to Tristran, but he was as white as a ghost."

Dagonet turned to look thoughtfully at Arthur. "Can you remember Tristran looking worried? Or even concerned?"

Arthur shook his head slowly.

"Neither can I," Dagonet admitted. "Until this day. I looked back out to see what had made him fear so much, and as I turned back he was kicking his horse forwards. He charged straight into the Saxons, cutting them down as he rode through."

"I've seen Tristran fight before," Arthur reminded him gently, but Dagonet shook his head stubbornly.

"Not like this you haven't. He hacked a path through the men, leaving a trail of dead and dying behind him. Heads, quite literally, rolled. I have never seen him fight with such passion."

"Tristran never fights with emotion," Arthur agreed.

"Tristran never _fought _with emotion," Dagonet corrected. "I'm getting the feeling that things will change if she is in danger again."

Arthur nodded meditatively, and glanced back to Tristran. The fierce scout was still smoothing Alennia's hair with gentle fingertips, oblivious to the world around him.

"Tristran!" Arthur called out across the clearing, and the knight's head snapped up. "Get some sleep," Arthur ordered him. "Tomorrow we ride hard for the wall."

Tristran looked as if he was going to argue for a moment, and then nodded sullenly, and, putting Alennia down and covering her with several more blankets, leant back against a tree, guarding her even in sleep.

"I don't even know her name," Arthur mused.

"Alennia," Dagonet said quietly, as if afraid to break some spell. "Her name is Alennia."

* * *

**A/N –** For some reason I've had such trouble writing this chapter. Early signs of a developing writer's block, I fear. So please bear with me over the next few days/weeks etc, and I'll try to shake the bane of all writers off, and continue with the story!

I can't believe how many reviews I got for the last chapter! 7 at last count. Can we see if we can make 10 this week? Please? You know it will make me a very happy little bunny :D Love all you guys!


	21. Protecting and Guarding

Chapter Twenty-One: Protecting and Guarding 

When Alennia woke, the first thing she was aware of was the quiet talking somewhere near her. She felt as if she was somehow disconnected, like she was underwater, and everything was slightly blurred and dimmed.

Alennia struggled to open her eyes, for they were bruised and swollen, and as they let the light in, a throbbing pain shot through her head, and suddenly a million minor aches started up in her battered body. She blinked at the bright light, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she could make out a familiar form in front of her.

"It was you," she said weakly.

Tristran smiled gently down at her. "Thought we'd lost you back there for a moment my Lady."

Alennia smiled feebly, and looked around her. She was in a bed in a small room. There was a table beside her bed and candles around her. Tristran was sitting in a chair beside her, and next to him was a tall man with short hair and an evil scar on his otherwise gentle face.

"This is Dagonet," Tristran introduced her. "He's been tending to your wounds."

"It seems I have a lot to thank you for," Alennia said respectfully.

"I wouldn't thank him just yet," Tristran remarked, and Alennia turned to look at him, and then back at Dagonet when she received no explanation.

"There is an arrowhead in your back, near your spine," Dagonet told her in his gentle voice. "We nearly lost you last time I tried to get it out. I'm afraid you're going to have to be conscious while I remove it, so that you cannot slip away from us."

Alennia paled slightly. She vaguely remembered the arrow hitting her and reaching to he back and breaking the shaft off. She knew how painful it could be to remove arrows: she had seen plenty, although she had never experienced it before.

"It will be bad?" she asked, although it was not much of a question, as she already knew the answer.

Dagonet nodded gently, and Alennia felt herself tremble slightly. "Now?"

"Now," he told her.

With a small sigh of acceptance, Alennia struggled to sit up. Seeing her pain, Tristran reached forwards to help her. He moved so he was sitting on the bed in front of her, and Alennia lifted the bottom of her shirt up slightly, so Dagonet could access the wound.

"Hold her tightly Tristran," Dagonet said in his calm voice, and Tristran wrapped his hands around her shoulders. Alennia was trembling, but she met Tristran's steady gaze, trying to show no fear.

"Ready?" Dagonet asked.

"Ready," Alennia said, her voice shaking slightly.

And then her world erupted in a sea of pain. She gasped out slightly, unable to move because of Tristran's strong hold. She dropped her gaze as unshed tears blurred her vision.

"Alennia look at me!" Tristran's voice cracked like a whip through the searing pain. Alennia's head snapped up, meeting the strong, calm gaze of those dark brown eyes, holding her locked in position.

Tristran felt every second of Alennia's pain as if it was his own, for though she never once cried out, her eyes betrayed her every emotion. Tears swam before her pleading eyes, and it was killing Tristran to hold her so tightly, when her whole body cried out against it, but hold her he must, and so he met her tortured look with a steady gaze, trying to funnel all the pain from her body to his.

And then, as Dagonet slowly withdrew the piece of metal, Tristran felt Alennia's body go limp, and he caught her in gentle arms.

"Hold her still for a moment," Dagonet told him, as he bound the wound. Alennia came to, as he was finishing, and whimpered slightly, her body still trembling.

"Let her sleep," Dagonet told Tristran. "I will see her tomorrow morning." And the big man rose to leave the room.

Tristran held Alennia close to him, stroking her hair soothingly, until she finally gave in, and sobbed softly into his chest. He murmured unintelligible words to her, smoothing her hair down with one hand as she wept. Eventually Alennia raised a blotchy, if shamefaced to him.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, looking down.

Tristran took her chin in one hand, and raised her face so that her eyes met his. "Are you alright?" he asked, and they both knew he didn't mean the condition her body was in.

Alennia held his gaze for a moment, her eyes filling with pain, before she tore free of his captivating eyes and looked down, shaking her head slightly.

"They're all dead, aren't they?" she whispered.

"You were the only one left alive when I arrived," Tristran admitted sorrowfully, for her pain was his, and her grief, his loss.

Alennia let out a stifled sob, and let Tristran draw her to him. "I killed them," she mumbled through her tears. "I led them to their deaths."

"No!" Tristran said forcefully, pulling back and holding her by her shoulders while he studied her face. "The Saxons killed them. They followed you willingly." He spoke with conviction in his voice, but he really had no idea if the clan had had the choice to fight. She could have forced them for all he knew, but she was hurting, and he would say anything to take away the pain.

"I killed them," she whispered again, oblivious to his words.

Tristran drew her back towards him, and with a small wail, she broke down, tears streaming down her face which was buried in his shoulder, and her hands found their way around to his back, clinging to him for support and comfort.

Tristran held her closely, protectively, rocking her back and forth as she wept, and thanking every God that he could name: Sarmatian, Roman and Christian, for keeping this woman alive long enough for him to hold her in his arms.

Eventually Alennia wept herself to sleep, and Tristran laid her down in her bed, wiping away her tears and smoothing down her hair. He pulled the blankets up over her, and resumed his place in his chair, protecting and guarding her.

* * *

**A/N –** OK, so we didn't get 10 reviews, but I'll forgive you guys (just kidding! Nothing to forgive) as I've got 85 in total, 85! Reviews. I am so unbelievably happy. We're aiming for one hundred (any cricket fans out there willing to help me get my century?) Right, I'm garbling (isn't that such a great word?) again, so I'll shut up. Hope you liked it – and please, please review! 


	22. Medicines Shouldn't Taste Nice

**Chapter Twenty-Two – Medicines Shouldn't Taste Nice**

When Alennia next woke, it was early morning. A pale daylight crept in through the window above her bed, sending a shaft of light across the room. Alennia stirred, cursing softly as she discovered aches and bruises she had forgotten about, and pulled herself up into something resembling a sitting position.

Tristran was asleep in a chair beside her bed, his usually fierce face relaxing slightly in sleep. As if he was aware of being watched, he blinked sleepily, smiling at Alennia when he realised she was awake.

"Good morning sleepy," Alennia greeted him teasingly.

Tristran smiled hazily at her, shaking his head slightly as he pulled himself up from where he had slid down the chair.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Alennia shrugged, and then immediately regretted the action. "As if that damn mare of yours has trampled me…Have you still got her?"

"Bretena? Yes. I'd never give up that mare. What about that old nag you had?"

"Died of exhaustion within a few weeks," Alennia admitted sheepishly.

"You need a good Sarmatian horse," Tristran told her. "Not one of those ponies that pass for horses here."

"Maybe," Alennia admitted grudgingly.

At that moment there was a soft tap at the door and Dagonet entered. He smiled down at Alennia when he saw she was awake, and came to sit in the empty chair beside her.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

"I'll live," Alennia said offhandedly.

Dagonet grinned. "An improvement then. Did you sleep well?"

Alennia shook her head. "Every time I moved I discovered a fresh bruise," she admitted.

Dagonet nodded. "I'll make you a drink that will help you sleep for tonight," he said, inspecting the various cuts and bruises on her body. "You'll be up and about within four, maybe five days."

"Five days!" Alennia said in horror. "I can't stay here that long!"

"And why not?"

"I have never stayed in bed for five days after some pathetic battle. I don't see why I should start now."

"Obviously being more likely to die and live for three days isn't a justifiable excuse," Dagonet commented to Tristran, and Alennia shot dark looks at both men.

"I can't!" she protested.

"You will," Tristran told her in a voice that gave no room for arguments.

Alennia pretended to pout, but soon gave up when she saw the expression on Tristran's face, and instead laughed, another bad idea, she realised, when every bone in her body hurt like hell.

"Time is the best healer," Dagonet told her gently. "So I will give you some things to make you sleep through most of it. Your body needs time to recover without you getting in the way."

He set a cup down beside her bed, and mixed a few herbs into the water. Alennia bent forwards, sniffing it warily, and then swore fiercely when she smelt it.

"You expect me to drink that?" she exclaimed angrily. "It smells foul!"

"Medicines shouldn't taste nice," Dagonet told her in an infuriatingly level tone. "It would encourage the patients to stay ill."

Alennia swore at him again, and then turned to look at Tristran, who was watching with a faintly amused expression on his face.

"Well?" she demanded of him.

"I wasn't going to say anything!" he objected.

Alennia narrowed her eyes and scowled at him, before turning back to Dagonet.

"Do I have to drink it?" she asked in a wheedling tone, changing tack rapidly as she realised defiance wasn't going to work.

"Yes," Dagonet told her bluntly. "You'll sleep for a day, maybe a bit more."

"I've done nothing but sleep these last two days!" Alennia complained.

"Five days, actually," Tristran told her. "You slept for four days straight from when we found you until when you woke."

Alennia paled slightly, realising that she was three days behind, but recovered her shock and swung back to Dagonet. "So you see, I've slept plenty!"

"I am not going to argue with you every minute that you are in bed. Drink it, and when you wake, I'll let you get up," he said, finally giving in.

"Alright," Alennia immediately agreed, picking the cup up. She sniffed at it suspiciously once more. "Are you sure it's safe?"

The expression on Dagonet's face spoke volumes.

"Alright! Alright!" And Alennia tipped it back into her mouth. She swallowed it, grimacing and then sputtered and cursed a bit for effect. But she almost immediately felt the drink set to work, and laid back on her pillows, trying to swear at Dagonet for making her drink such a foul brew, but then the world began to get fuzzier and fuzzier, and eventually she disappeared into a world of blissful oblivion.

Dagonet looked across at Tristran and raised his eyebrows slightly.

"I wish you luck with her. She'll fight you to the very end."

Tristran shrugged, "Perhaps." He looked at Dagonet, and then narrowed his eyes. "You were going to let her get up in a day from the beginning."

Dagonet grinned slightly.

"You old dog!" Tristran exclaimed.

Dagonet laughed out loud as he pulled the blankets up over the oblivious form of Alennia. "You have to admit, it was amusing," he grinned sideways at Tristran, who was shaking his head in amazement.

* * *

**A/N - **Well guys, here you go. Sorry it's going a bit slow at the moment – there won't be much action until Alennia is mobile again, but that won't be too long! 


	23. Learning To Become A Woman

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Learning to Become a Woman **

Tristran stood in the stables, stroking his mare's neck softly as he crooned to her. She always had been a calming influence on him: she had gone through everything he had, and had never failed him, and so it was to her he instinctively went when things were wrong.

And they were wrong now, although in every respect his life should be complete with Alennia so close. And yet that was the very problem. He loved her. He knew it better than he knew anything else, and, in a way he hated it. He hated it because it made him so vulnerable.

He had built up a suit of armour around himself so that nothing would hurt him, and then _she _had wandered into his life, and changed everything. One smile from Alennia, and suddenly his life wasn't his own anymore. Love had taken him hostage, eaten him out, and left him crying in the darkness that it had left. It hurt. Not just in the heart. Not just in the mind. A pain that had got inside him and ripped him apart, leaving just the broken shell of the man who had once been strong and unshakable.

And it was not only that. He could have endured that pain, but he was slowly beginning to realise how ridiculous it was. She was a Woad, a Queen among the Woads, he was a Sarmatian knight, her enemy. If he gave in to his heart and said anything to her, they would both be destroyed. Only by keeping his distance and guarding his wounded heart would he be able to save her.

He was not foolish enough to believe that she would not suffer for his love. If her people found out about him, she would be torn apart when she returned. No. He had to save her, and if that meant sacrificing everything he had, then he would do it willingly. A man can close his eyes to the things he do not want to see, but he can never close his heart to the emotions he do not want to feel. But close his heart he must, though it would tear him apart.

"Tristran!" a voice came from behind him, startling him from his bitter thoughts. He spun around to see Arthur there, watching him closely. How long had he been there?

"Arthur," Tristran greeted him warily.

"Dagonet tells me the woman will live," Arthur began, clearly wanting Tristran to take the cue, but wheh he remained obstinately silent, Arthur continued. "We have to talk about her."

"What is there to say?" Tristran asked, albeit slightly belligerently.

Arthur sighed, seeing this was not going to be easy. "When she is well again, will she be going back to her people, or will she stay here?"

"Why are you asking me?" Tristran demanded, not wanting to know the answer himself.

"You know her best," Arthur said, trying to keep his tone level.

Tristran sighed as he suddenly realised how ridiculously he was acting. "I don't know," he told the Roman in a subdued voice. "But I imagine she'll want to return to her own people."

Arthur nodded, his eyes resting on Tristran's face, and for a fraction of a second, he looked like he was going to say something, but then, abruptly, he turned around and left Tristran alone once more.

* * *

When Alennia woke the first thing she saw was a heavily pregnant young woman with copper-coloured hair, sitting on a chair beside her bed, sewing. As she saw Alennia wake she put her sewing down on the small table beside the bed and smiled at Alennia. 

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

Alennia struggled to sit up, mentally preparing herself for the wave of pain at the movement, but, to her surprise, none came, and she grudgingly had to admit to herself that Dagonet may have been right in insisting on her remaining in bed for the extra day.

"Better," Alennia admitted in a surprised voice.

The copper-haired woman grinned at her, rising. "Now, how would you feel about a bath?"

She received no answer, not that she got one, for the look of sheer longing on Alennia's face spoke volumes. The woman laughed as she made her way to the door and opened it. Alennia could see the face of a frightened-looking maid outside, and the woman spoke to her.

"Send some hot water up here for, Alennia?" she turned to Alennia at the end of the statement, making the last word a question. When Alennia nodded to confirm her name, the woman turned back to the girl. "Send some hot water up for a bath for Alennia please," she reiterated.

The girl nodded, and withdrew. The woman closed the door and turned back to Alennia. "I'm Vanora," she told her. "This little one," she put her hand protectively over her swollen belly. "Is the child of one of the knights. And since none of the others have women at the moment, the job of caring for anything, or anyone always falls to me." She smiled quickly and reassuringly at Alennia to make sure that she didn't think she was complaining about Alennia's company, and Alennia smiled in return, no words being needed to communicate between the two women.

"Well," Vanora said practically. "You certainly look like you need a hot bath!"

Alennia laughed. "I honestly cannot remember the last time I bathed in hot water. Certainly not for three or four years."

Vanora looked horrified. "You poor child! What have you been doing?"

"Fighting," Alennia admitted.

Vanora seemed to understand this. "When Bors, my man, come back after a long mission with the knights, he stinks so bad I don't let him inside until he's washed. I swear they don't look at clean water, let alone a bar of soap during those trips of theirs!"

* * *

In the time it took to clean Alennia up, wash and comb her hair and feed her a meal, the two women had become firm friends. Despite their very different circumstances, they had much in common, and talked quite happily. 

As Alennia was finishing her meal, Vanora narrowed her eyes as she watched her.

"What?" Alennia asked, a spoon of stew poised halfway to her mouth.

"I was wondering what colour you could wear best," Vanora explained.

Alennia shrugged. "I haven't worn a dress since I was a child," she told Vanora. "It's all down to you I'm afraid."

But Vanora wasn't listening. She lifted a lock of Alennia's chestnut hair, and ran it through her fingers. "Blue, I think," she murmured to herself. Then she smiled, and her whole face lit up. "I know just the one," she said decisively. Then she looked up at the bemused-looking Alennia. "What would you say to breaking a few heart?"

Alennia raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"I could make you into a sensation, so that not one knight would be able to resist you. You are pretty, I grant. I can make you beautiful."

Vanora saw Alennia's eyes widen slightly and then drift far away, and in that moment, Vanora knew the precise state of Alennia's heart. It didn't take a genius to see a woman in love.

"Show him you can be a woman too," she whispered to Alennia.

Alennia looked up quickly at Vanora, and seeing the knowing expression in her face, blushed and looked down.

"Let's go and break a heart," Vanora said decidedly.

* * *

**A/N –** So close to 100 reviews! Please, please let this be the chapter to reach 100 – it'll make me a very happy little person! 


	24. Breaking Hearts

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Breaking Hearts**

Tristran was lounging back on his chair, cradling a wine cup. He wasn't really listening to the heated debate going on between Lancelot and Arthur, and instead he let his mind drift. If they were talking about anything important, he reasoned, someone would tell him about it sooner or later.

There was a tap on the door, disturbing Tristran from his reverie, and he glanced up as Vanora entered. She curtseyed quickly and spoke to Arthur.

"Milady Alennia to see you, my Lord," she said, a wicked smile playing around the corners of her mouth as she withdrew to clear the doorway for Alennia's entrance.

And what an entrance! Alennia stepped forwards into the doorway, and paused there for a moment, giving the knights ample time to take in the sight of hazel curls cascading down onto her shoulder and fanning out and contrasting perfectly with the pale blue dress she was wearing. It was a modest dress of Roman design, and though it may discreetly cover most flesh, there was nothing modest in the way it was cut to accentuate every curve, every swish over her hips, every ripple of her body as she moved.

Tristran felt his breath catch in his throat as Alennia moved forwards, for she could be said to walk, instead she glided effortlessly across the ground, to meet Arthur who rose to greet her. Alennia curtseyed low as he took her hand and brought it to his lips. Tristran idly wondered where she had learnt such courtly manners, but one look at the impish expression on Vanora's face as she watched Alennia wreck havoc with the knights, told him everything he wanted to know.

"It is an honour to meet you, my Lady Alennia," Arthur was saying.

"The honour is all mine my Lord," Alennia responded, with such ease that Tristran would have sworn she had been born in court. "I must thank you for saving my life."

"It was Tristran, Bors and Dagonet who rescued you my Lady," Arthur replied awkwardly. "It is they who deserve your thanks."

Alennia turned the full charm of her winsome smile on the three men. She knew Tristran and Dagonet of course, and so she assumed that the other knight Arthur motioned to must be Bors, Vanora's man.

"I apologise for intruding upon your discussion," Alennia continued, turning back to Arthur.

"It was no intrusion my Lady," Arthur assured her. "In fact, we were just about to go and eat." While he was saying this he shot black looks at Galahad, the most likely knight to refute this. "Would you care to join us?"

"Why, thank you my Lord," Alennia simpered, enjoying the role of damsel in distress greatly.

Arthur bowed to Alennia and proceeded to lead the way out of the hall. The other knights rose to follow, and Alennia waited for Tristran. He approached her, offering her his arm gravely.

"My Lady," he said in a solemn voice.

Alennia took the proffered arm with a laugh. "Why Sir Knight!" she simpered, fluttering her eyelashes at him, and sending Gawain into a fit of laughter behind them.

"Was I so very bad?" she asked Tristran imploringly, having flung a cheeky grin in Gawain's direction.

"You were a minx," he told her in an amused and tolerant tone as they walked togther.

Alennia grinned mischievously up at him, and then danced back a few steps, trailing her hand through his, so that Tristran could see her properly. "How do I look?" she asked in her best 'little girl' voice.

Tristran let his appreciative eyes rove across her body, very deliberately and very slowly, until he could see Alennia's cheeks burn.

"Why Sir Knight!" she exclaimed, still blushing fiercely.

Tristran chuckled at her embarrassment. "You look just fine," he told her, holding out his arm meaningfully, and Alennia tucked her arm into his again

"So," Alennia said, quickly moving the subject away from her body. "That is Bors with Vanora?"

Tristran considered continuing to tease her, but relented and answered her question. "Yes. And behind us are Gawain and Galahad."

"And who is your long-nosed friend next to Dagonet?" Alennia enquired sweetly.

"That would be Lancelot," Tristran told her, as Lancelot swung around, spluttering indignantly.

"Have I really got a long nose?" he demanded of Alennia, who pretended to consider it for a moment.

"I've seen worse," she told him in a sincere voice, before turning to Tristran. "Your horse's nose is much longer, is it not?" sending Tristran, Galahad and Gawain into hysterics and a scowling Lancelot stomping off in front of them, past the bemused Dagonet.

"Where did you find this woman?" Dagonet asked Tristran in amazement.

Tristran glanced down at Alennia, a fond expression on his face. "You wouldn't believe it if I did tell you," he said, with total sincerity.

* * *

As the days went by, Alennia was rarely seen out of Tristran's company. The two walked around the garrison together, as Alennia slowly recovered her strength. They sat beside each other at meals, teasing and mocking each other, and Tristran would take Alennia out riding on his mare, along the Roman highways, returning late, laughing and talking.

Dagonet watched on with a growing sadness in his heart. He could see the joy on both of their faces when they were together, but he could not help but wonder how long it would last. Alennia, despite her contented appearance, was quite obviously suffering inside, and from what he could gather; it was from the loss of her clan and her guilt over their deaths. She was fragile, and Dagonet knew that Tristran could quite easily break her heart, and cause her even worse grief than she was already experiencing.

And Tristran, well, Dagonet knew that if anything happened to take Alennia from him, they would lose Tristran. He needed her, as much as she needed him, and as yet their relationship was too fragile for such dependence.

At night, Alennia would sit in her room, hugging her knees, and telling herself over and over again that they could never be more than friends, and yet every night she dreamt of him, and every morning she fell in love with him all over again when she saw his face.

* * *

Late one night, when Alennia sat in the moonlight, Tristran's face in her mind, a soft knock came at the door, and Vanora entered.

"We need to talk," she said, giving Alennia no time to greet her.

"About what?" Alennia asked warily.

"About Tristran," Vanora told her, sitting beside her on the bed. "What's up between you two?"

"Nothing!" Alennia immediately exclaimed. "Well, what I mean is, we're just friends."

Vanora studied Alennia for some time. "Tell me," she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Alennia held her gaze for a moment, before dropping her eyes. "I love him," she said simply.

"But?" Vanora asked.

"But I can't. I shouldn't! He's a knight, I'm a Woad. Things like that don't happen."

"And yet you still love him," it was not a question, but a statement.

Alennia lowered her head. "I am kept up all night thinking about him, and when I sleep I find him in my dreams."

Vanora reached forwards and raised Alennia's face to meet her eyes. "It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return, but what is most painful is to love someone and never find the courage to tell them."

"What if he doesn't feel the same way?" Alennia asked despairingly. "I can't bear to lose him, even as a friend."

"Believe me, he feels the same way for you as you do for him."

"How do you know?" Alennia asked quietly, a small hope springing in her heart.

"I know Tristran, and I know what love does to people. He loves you, Alennia. He loves you," and saying that she rose and left, leaving Alennia in even more pain and uncertainty that she was in before.

* * *

**A/N -** OK, so the last bit was a bit weird, but I wanted Alennia to talk to Vanora, and I think Vanora's a no-nonsense kind of person when it comes to telling people what she thinks. Anyway, things are going to get interesting very soon between Alennia and Tristran, so prepare yourselves for two very melodramatic chapters! 


	25. If I Give Up On You

**Chapter Twenty-Five: If I Give Up On You, I Give Up On Me**

"Good morning," Alennia greeted Tristran cheerfully as she sat down beside him in the courtyard.

Tristran glanced up at her. She was dressed, as was now customary, in a Roman gown, with her hair swept neatly back.

"You'll need to change," Tristran told her.

"And why is that?" Alennia asked, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

"I'm going to teach you to fight," Tristran told her.

"I can fight!" Alennia protested.

"Not well," Tristran told her bluntly.

Alennia narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Who are you to say whether I can fight well or not?"

"Someone who was killing men before you even knew what a sword looked like. You are coming with me, and you are learning to fight," he rose, making as if to go, but Alennia stopped him, standing as well.

"You are not going to insult me by saying I cannot fight!" she almost screamed at him, boiling with rage at the insult.

Vanora, who entered the courtyard at that moment, rolled her eyes at Dagonet, who was watching the fight with an amused expression.

"Lovers' quarrel," she grinned at him.

"You will do as I tell you! Now go and change," Tristran was saying to Alennia, his voice adopting a dangerous tone.

"And if I refuse?" Alennia asked.

"Would you prefer me to help you dress?" Tristran asked in a menacing voice.

Alennia looked at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter. Tristran tried to look dignified for a moment and then collapsed into mirth as well.

"Alright," he said, wiping away the tears that were streaming down his face. "Maybe that was slightly ridiculous."

"A bit more than slightly," Alennia giggled. "Now, if you don't mind, I will go and change alone, and I will be back soon!"

* * *

Five hours later, and Alennia's bad mood had returned. She was in the large indoor ring by the stables, with Tristran. They had been fighting since the morning, and it was now late afternoon.

Alennia was tired. She had never fought with swords so heavy, and every muscle ached, not to mention her many injuries that were burning with a fire-like pain. She was getting worse because of her exhaustion, and still Tristran was refusing to let her stop. She was tired, hungry, and in pain, and in no mood to be pushed to her very limits.

Tristran, in contrast, was still fighting with the cool efficiency that he had begun with. He showed no signs of fatigue, and there was not even a drop of sweat on his brow as he wielded the heavy sword.

Alennia saw an attacking stroke coming and desperately tried to bring her sword up to parry, but she was too slow, and had Tristran not arrested the motion of his blade, she would have been hit.

"Try harder," Tristran told her in a calm voice.

"I'm trying as hard as I can!" Alennia snapped at him.

"No you're not," Tristran said in his infuriatingly composed voice.

"I am trying!" Alennia shouted at him, flinging the sword into the sand and stalking away. "You can't make me do this!"

"Pick the sword up, I'm not finished with you yet."

"Well I'm finished with you!"

"Pick up the sword!" Tristran shouted this time.

"No!" Alennia refused, rounding on him, her anger bubbling to the surface. "Why are you even making me do this?"

Something snapped inside Tristran. "I'm doing it because I'm scared!" he shouted, immediately silencing Alennia. "I'm not strong enough to carry on if I lose you. I care about you Alennia! I care about you and I cannot bear to think of a world without you."

A silence fell as Tristran finished. They stood, facing each other. Tristran's breathing was heavy and ragged, and Alennia searched his eyes, trying to find truth in his words.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

Tristran did not move for a minute, and Alennia had just thought that he wouldn't answer, when he stepped forwards, kissing her fiercely. The second that Tristran lips touched hers, Alennia was sure she could feel the earth shake beneath her feet, as thunder crackled around her mind, and lightning tore her world apart

Somehow her arms found their way around his back, and she pulled him close towards her, kissing back with a passion that Tristran had not expected. She sighed softly, releasing him, and then placed her cheek against his.

"It seems I have paid my debt," she whispered to him.

Tristran shook his head, still dazed from the hunger of her kiss, and pulled back so he could study her. "Oh no, Lady. Do not think you can escape so easily. You owe me a kiss. This time _I_ kissed _you_."

"Is that so?" Alennia asked, an impish smile on her face. "Well, if you can catch me, I will pay whatever debts you feel I owe!" and so saying, she skipped away from him, running lightly away on nimble feet, her exhaustion forgotten.

Tristran laughed, following her with steady and deliberate strides, as Alennia danced in front of him, always slightly out of reach. She led him out of the arena, and down the deserted hallways before he caught her.

Alennia did not move away fast enough, and Tristran caught her arm, pulling her towards him, and Alennia surrendered to his touch, melting into his arms and bringing her hungry lips to meet his.

And when he kissed her Alennia suddenly realised what it was to be loved. It was the moment of complete vulnerability, when she yielded to him, but in the moment that Tristran kissed her, she knew that he had given his heart to her. He had tried to hide it away, but somehow along the way Alennia had managed to steal it, and treasured it as dearly, if not more so, than her own. When they came up for air, both were gasping.

"My room's closer," Alennia whispered in Tristran's ear.

He looked at her in amazement. "Are you sure?" he asked, and they both knew that the question wasn't about the location of their rooms.

Alennia didn't answer, instead she brought her lips up to meet Tristran's again, and he was hers, unable to resist any longer.

* * *

Of all the knights, it was only Dagonet who noticed Tristran and Alennia's absence that evening, and he could not help but feel uneasy about the outcome of their affections.

* * *

**A/N –** What can I say? Hope you liked it – I couldn't keep them apart much longer (!) Please R&R as ever! 


	26. A Kiss May Ruin A Life

**Chapter Twenty-Six: A Kiss May Ruin a Human Life**

Tristran lay awake, watching Alennia sleep beside him. It was dawn, and a pale light crept into the room, illuminating Alennia's face. She slept curled up against Tristran's side, her face trusting and perfectly content.

What had he done? Tristran thought in horror as he watched her. He had let his emotions take control, and done what he had always sworn he would never do: he had let her know that he cared for her. One kiss, and he was powerless. Few people knew it, but a kiss could ruin a human life.

Alennia stirred slightly in her sleep, moving closer to Tristran. She wasn't young, but still a child. There was still innocence in her untainted smile as she slept. Tristran had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What had he done?

He loved her. What was once an uncertainty was now a reality. He loved her, but he loved her too much to do this to her. He did not deserve someone so perfect as she was. She needed someone who could give her everything she deserved: someone who her people looked up to and respected, not a ragged Sarmatian under the control of the Romans.

He and Alennia were of two different worlds, and any admittance of emotion could only lead to pan and suffering. It was far better to conceal all he felt, to show no weakness and keep his senses, but deep down inside, where no one could hear him, he would be crying for her.

* * *

When Alennia woke Tristran was half-dressed, sitting in a chair across the room, pulling his boots on.

"Morning," Alennia murmured sleepily, rolling over so she could see him properly.

Tristran just grunted in reply, pulling his shirt on over his head, while inside he was screaming. Did she have to wake now? Now, it would be a thousand times worse.

"Where are you off to in such a rush?" Alennia asked.

"Hunting," Tristran told her shortly.

"Hunting?" Alennia asked, her voice betraying the growing uncertainty in her heart, and her eyes studied his, desperate to see some emotion in them, but they were flat and dead.

"Tristran…" Alennia began in a hesitant voice.

"Look," Tristran interrupted her, wanting to get it over and done with. "Alennia. We can't carry on like this. Last night was a…a mistake. Forget it ever happened." Tristran spoke in a deadpan voice, knowing that if he let his voice waver a fraction, or his eyes betray even the slightest bit of emotion, she would have her doubts, and he could not do that to her. Far better that she remember him as a cold-hearted bastard, than miss him as he would miss her. He didn't have to see the distress on her face to know how much she was hurting. He could feel her pain as if it was his own, and it was tearing him apart.

"Oh," came Alennia's reply, her voice sounding very small.

"You understand?" Tristran asked her roughly, wanting anything but the quiet bewilderment from her. He expected, no, he wanted her to shout, to scream, to curse his name, and then he would have been able to shout and scream back at her and leave, slamming the door on her and therefore dispel some of the pain of his breaking heart. Instead she sat quietly, her pain evident on her face, but not a word of anger passing her lips.

"I understand," she told him mechanically, but inside she was screaming. Was this really the man who, only a few hours ago, had held her close, stroked her hair, told her he cared for her? Where was the Tristran she knew? In his place was a callous, fierce man, with cold eyes and a cruel face.

Tristran looked as if he was about to say something, but then stood abruptly and moved to the door, opening it and leaving without even looking at Alennia. As he closed the door behind him, abandoning the only woman he had ever loved, his face seemed to sag, and he put his hand out to support himself, as pain seemed to split his heart in two.

* * *

Dagonet walked slowly through the halls of the fort. It was that quiet time of the day, just before the sun rose, when men talked in hushed voices and moved quietly. He could see the door of the hall of the round table was slightly ajar, and so he made his way towards it, and looking in, saw Arthur, bent over some paper work, an almost completely burnt-out candle on the table beside him.

"You're up early," Dagonet commented, and Arthur looked up, startled at the unexpected presence. Dagonet could now see the dark bags under his eyes, and his weary face, which looked older than Dagonet had seen it look before.

"I could say the same for you," Arthur rejoined. Dagonet grinned and walked into the room, sitting down beside Arthur.

"Or perhaps Artorius has not seen his bed this night," he remarked.

Arthur glanced up at him, an ironic smile on his face. "They praise me for leading the knights into battle. If only they knew how easy that was in comparison to the reams of paperwork!"

Dagonet nodded slowly. Of all the knights he knew best what pressure Arthur was under, as it was he who rose early, and he alone who saw Arthur working through the night.

"Curse the Romans with their paperwork," Arthur said affably.

"I'll drink to that," Dagonet agreed.

"So would I, but not so early in the morning I think."

Dagonet shrugged. "It doesn't seem to stop Lancelot,"

"Nothing stops Lancelot," Arthur agreed.

Suddenly Dagonet was aware of a movement, and looked up to see Tristran enter the room. The fierce knight looked even wilder than usual, and on his face was an expression Dagonet had never seen before. He had known Tristran a long time, and seen him in hope, in fear, in rage, and even in love, or at least only when he looked at Alennia. But never before had Dagonet seen the cold and almost cruel expression that was on Tristran's face as he spoke to Arthur.

"I'm going hunting," he told his commander in a flat, emotionless tone.

Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly, but decided not to comment, and instead nodded, turning back to his work. "How long will you be?" he asked, keeping his voice very level, knowing too well what Tristran could be like in one of his moods, if he thought himself provoked.

Tristran just shrugged. "Later," he said unhelpfully, and turned swiftly, leaving on feet as silent as those he arrived on.

Arthur glanced up to Dagonet and shrugged slightly. He had too many pressures on him without worrying about moody knights. As far as he was concerned, Tristran would come around. He always did.

Dagonet sat in silence for some time, staring pensively at the doorway, long after Arthur had returned to his work, his mind drawing its own conclusions. Memories. Memories of Alennia and Tristran spending all of the previous day together, their unexplained absence the previous evening, the conversation he had with Tristran on the night Arthur told them they were returning to this section of the wall, Tristran's foul mood this morning.

Suddenly he looked up."Arthur!" he said urgently.

Arthur looked up wearily from his work. "What is it?"

"You need to promise me something. If Alennia comes to you today, requesting to be allowed to return to her people, you must not let her go. Stall her, for at least a day. You must not let her go."

Arthur put down his stylus and looked at Dagonet, a serious expression on his face. "Why?"

Dagonet shrugged. "Just a feeling."

Arthur narrowed his eyes as his mind raced. "You think...her and Tristran?"

Dagonet shrugged again. "As I said, it's only a feeling. But you know what Tristran can be like. And you know as well as I how vulnerable both of them are."

Arthur nodded, slowly and evenly. "Alright. If she asks, I will make sure she does not leave until tomorrow."

Dagonet nodded, relieved. "We need that man, no matter how much of a moody bastard he can be."

Arthur grinned. "He'd skin you alive if he could hear you."

"Then pray that he does not."

* * *

**A/N –** Now there was a hard chapter to write! Still, it's done now. Next chapter won't be too long – I wrote most of it in math(s) today (the brackets around the 's' are to compromise between the English and American ways of saying it. I picked up on that particular word as opposed to any of a thousand others because I sit next to an American in math(s), and she's desperately trying to make me speak 'properly') Alright, alright, I'm rambling again. Hope you enjoyed the chapter – I'm off to start wrapping up Christmas presents! 


	27. From Heaven to Hell

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: From Heaven to Hell**

Tristran rode out of the garrison in a foul mood. He irritably pushed his horse forwards into a canter. His mare felt his mood, and was restless enough herself from months of being cooped up, and so took up the challenge gamely, and launched herself forwards into a flat-out gallop, happy to throw her whole heart into running and burn of all the energy from her long confinement.

Tristran didn't try to slow her down as he usually would. Instead he leant forwards, giving her full movement, and let the speed wash over him and bear his rage away. At least he could blame the wind for causing the tears in his eyes.

When he eventually slowed his sweating mare down to a walk, he no longer felt the sharp pain that had haunted him since Alennia had woken. Instead there was a dull ache in his heart, and he could feel a scar forming, a scar that he would carry for the rest of his life. A scar didn't necessarily have to be visible to be a constant reminder to the person who carried it.

* * *

When Alennia finally moved, it was if in a trance. She rose from her bed, and dressed and washed mechanically, without showing any emotion on her face. Alennia moved around the room automatically, silently, her face devoid of all feeling, her movements emotionless. She picked up a comb from where it lay on the table beside her bed, and stood for a moment, the comb in her hands, staring down at it, transfixed.

Suddenly she spun around, flinging the comb across the room with all her strength. It hit the mirror, sending shards flying across the room, and Alennia's legs buckled, and she fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically.

She didn't understand how one man could affect her so much, how one man could show her a glimpse of heaven one night, and then cast her down into hell the next day. But what was worst was that she couldn't blame him. For all that she wanted to hate him, curse his name and spit on his face, she couldn't.

When it came down to it, the blame rested on her shoulders alone. She was the one who had given in to him. He hadn't forced her to do anything. She knew what the knights were like: she knew how they bedded woman with little or no thought as to the feelings of their lover, she knew all this, and still she went to his bed, expecting it to be different. And yet for all the shame and humiliation that she felt, what hurt most was losing him.

She didn't know how long she stayed that way, curled up into a ball, weeping into her hands, but when there were no more tears to fall, the detached aura of calm descended once more, upon her, and Alennnia stood, her eyes red and puffy, but her face impassive.

She washed her face, and smoothed away all traces of the tears, and then went to where he comb lay, among the shards of glass, and retrieved it to brush her hair. She wound her hair into a coil on the back of her head, and replaced the comb gently on the table, all traces of her violent anger gone.

And there she stood, in the middle of her room. She did not move again until all signs of pain and grief were eased from her face, and she was able to laugh and smile almost naturally. And then, when she was finally prepared, so that nobody would see what agony and grief she was in, she left the shelter of her room.

* * *

All that day Alennia went about her life as if nothing had happened. She joked with Galahad and teased Lancelot as she always had, so no one but the most observant could see any traces of her suffering.

None, but the most observant. And there was one knight among them, one knight who had watched Tristran storm out of the garrison in a black mood. One knight who had just happened to see the hastily concealed look on Alennia's face when Tristran's name was mentioned. One knight named Dagonet.

He watched Alennia laughing and joking with the others. He watched the eyes that usually shined so brightly, fill with a dull pain when she thought nobody was watching. He watched, and he felt his heart break for the woman, so fragile and vulnerable, acting with a strength he couldn't have believes she possessed.

It was mid-morning by the time Alennia had plucked up enough courage to go and speak with Arthur. It was ridiculous really, she thought. The idea of charging into battle made her nothing more than slightly nervous, and yet she could scarcely bring herself to speak to one man. But find the courage she must, and so she steeled herself to knock on the door of the room he worked in.

Arthur looked up, surprised, when she entered. For all Dagonet's predictions, Arthur had not truly expected Alennia to come to him.

"Sit," he said, setting his work aside and inviting her to a seat.

Alennia sat down nervously, trying to find the right words for what she wanted to ask.

"I need to be getting back to my people," she began, throwing aside the need for any introduction and getting straight to the point, so that she could get out of Arthur's presence as soon as possible. The big Roman made her nervous: his chiselled looks and impassive features were too hard to read, but his dark eyes seemed to look straight through her. Alennia felt exposed in his presence, as if he knew her deepest thoughts. "I want to thank you for all that you and your knights have done for me, but I must leave you."

Arthur leant back, folding his hands as he considered her. How could he keep her for another day when she was so hell-bent on going?

Alennia took his silence as hesitation, and spoke up quickly trying to convince him, "I'm perfectly fit enough to leave," she said, studying his eyes in vain for some sign of what he felt.

Arthur didn't doubt this. He also knew that she had been fit enough to leave for days, but did not voice his thoughts. "How am I to know that you will not report all you have seen here to Merlin? That you will not betray us?"

Alennia's face registered shock. She had not for one moment considered the possibility that Arthur would not trust her enough to let her go. "I fight the Saxons!" she told Arthur hastily. "Romans are of no interest to me."

Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly. "And what is the great rush to be leaving?" he asked easily.

Alennia shifted nervously. "I want to be going so that I can reach my people before dark," she told him.

"You want to leave today?" Arthur asked, his voice incredulous. "Impossible. You need at least a day to prepare, to pack food and clothing, to find a horse."

"If I got going soon I wouldn't need food," Alennia said, slightly irritably. "And I can walk."

"And you are going to wear those clothes?" Arthur asked, raising one eyebrow slightly as he looked over Alennia's thin dress and delicate sandals. "You would be cut to pieces if you went back to your people dressed as a Roman. No," he said decidedly. "You will not be leaving today. Perhaps I may be able to let you go tomorrow." Arthur turned back to his work, dismissing Alennia by his actions.

Alennia sat still for a moment, and then stood, very slowly. "You won't let me go?" she asked quietly.

Arthur did not even look up. "Not today."

Alennia stood static for a moment, and then turned abruptly towards the door and left quickly.

Arthur looked up when she was gone and sighed. Since when had women ever done anything but complicate his life?

Alennia found that she was shaking as she made her way up onto the wall. She needed to be somewhere quiet, to give her time to think, and the wall was the best place she could think of. It was rarely occupied, save for the Roman infantrymen patrolling it, and so Alennia found that she could stare out across the homeland unchallenged and undisturbed.

She had been banking everything on being able to leave before she had to see Tristran again. She didn't want to have to see the face, once so enchanting, curl back in a derisive grin when he saw her. She didn't want to see the other knights laughing with Tristran as he told them of his conquest, for in Alennia's mind, he undoubtedly would tell them of it.

It was the shame, more than anything else that was killing her. She had given everything up to him, willingly making herself more vulnerable than she had ever been, and he had thrown that in her face, scorning her and leaving her disgraced and humiliated.

And in that moment, when she stood, tall and angry on the wall, gazing out across the barren plains with the wind whipping her hair back, she hated him more than she had hated anyone in her whole life. More, even,than she hated the Saxons.

* * *

**A/N –** Woo hoo! We have the internet back! The excitement is simply killing me! OK so I'm in a melodramatic mood. Anyway…what did you think? I quite liked this chapter, but please tell me what you think! I'm off to write the next chapter: I'm on a roll! Love y'all!

Oh yeah, and I'm not sure if the Romans had mirrors, so you'll have to bear with me on that point. If they didn't, well, I'm sorry, but I wanted her to break something, and I couldn't think of anything else more convenient.


	28. He Still Loves You

**Chapter Twenty-Eight – He Still Loves You**

Alennia stood with Vanora in the courtyard, chatting with her, as though nothing had happened. She looked up when she heard a man enter, knowing that it would not be long before Tristran returned, and praying that she would not have to face him, but it was only the knights' groom, a man called Jols.

Jols went across to where Lancelot and Dagonet sat drinking, and collapsed into a chair beside them. There had never been much of a formal relationship between the knights and their groom, and they generally treated him as one of them. Dagonet poured Jols and a drink and slid it along the bar to him. Jols took a long swig, and put it down, sighing slightly.

"Would you look at that now," he said in a strangled voice as he looked across the courtyard.

Both Dagonet and Lancelot looked across to see what it was Jols was so transfixed on, and saw Alennia, dressed in a pale blue dress, a cascade of hazel curls down one shoulder and a laugh in her eyes as she talked to Vanora.

"That, my friend," Lancelot said with certainty in his voice, "is untouchable."

"What?" Jols asked, in a mock-incredulous voice. "Is the great Lancelot truly admitting that there is a woman he cannot have?"

Lancelot just laughed good-naturedly.

She's Tristran's woman," Dagonet informed Jols.

"He wouldn't share, would he?" Jols asked in a wistful voice, his eyes still on Alennia.

Lancelot chuckled gently. "Tristran wouldn't share a loaf of bread with his starving mother."

"Don't even think about it Jols," Dagonet advised. "Tristran would rip your balls off if he even saw you looking at her like that."

"He's not here now," Jols said in a hopeful voice, looking around the square.

"Alennia's just as likely to rip your balls as Tristran," Lancelot commented. "Really, don't even think about it. There are much safer women to warm your bed."

At that moment Tristran entered. A momentary hush fell at the sight of the scowl on his face, but then the conversation started up again, and Tristran was once again forgotten as he walked slowly and deliberately across the courtyard.

"They don't seem particularly close," Jols commented, and Dagonet looked up to see Alennia glance up at Tristran and her face contort with pain, before she forced a carefree smile and returned to talking wity Vanora. The others forgot Alennia and Tristran, and went on with their conversation, but Dagonet saw the studied way with which they avoided each other's eyes.

* * *

Alennia's whole body stiffened when Tristran entered the courtyard. It took her whole concentration to keep her eyes from going straight to his face. She had thought she was strong. She had thought that she didn't need him, that she didn't need his love, but when he passed her without even doing so much as glancing her way, she knew her heart was breaking.

The tears, so closely guarded throughout the day, suddenly prickled fiercely at her eyes, and Alennia knew she couldn't pretend any longer. She was yet too proud to show her grief in front of anyone else, and so she stood abruptly, pushing past the surprised-looking Tristran and abandoning Vanora, as she escaped to the deserted corridors just as her tears began to flow.

Dagonet watched Alennia with concern evident on his face. After a second's hesitation he rose and followed her out into the hallway. Tristran noticed how closely Alennia's departure was followed by Dagonet, and a mounting anger began to grow inside him.

"Alennia!" Dagonet called out to her retreating form once they were both in the corridor and away from the prying eyes of all in the courtyard.

"Go away," Alennia said in a muffled voice, walking faster in an attempt to escape him.

"Alennia," Dagonet repeated impatiently as he strode to catch up with her and put a hand on her arm, forcing her to turn around.

"Leave me alone," Alennia said, but with less conviction, as she raised her red eyes and tear-stained face to Dagonet.

"What is it?" Dagonet asked roughly.

"Nothing," Alennia protested feebly.

"Is it Tristran?" Dagonet asked, his eyes narrowing. "I'll kill him," he added fiercely as he studied Alennia's face.

"No! Dagonet, please! Don't say anything to him," Alennia said in a scared voice. "Please!" she begged, the words that for so long had been bottled up in her heart suddenly coming out in a rush, "it was my fault. I was a fool to believe…to believe he cared for me."

Alennia was sobbing by now, as much from the grief of losing Tristran as from the shame of admitting it. Dagonet reached forwards silently, and drew her towards him. Alennia clung to him, sobbing into his chest as he held her, murmuring soft, soothing words.

Neither saw Tristran appear at the end of the passageway, and stop abruptly at the sight of Dagonet with his arms around Alennia. He retreated back a step into the shadows, too far away to hear any words the two spoke, but close enough to see them.

"Please don't say anything to him," Alennia implored Dagonet as the two pulled apart.

Dagonet was torn for a moment by his growing anger at Tristran for having treated Alennia so badly, but one look at Alennia's desperate and fearful face made up his mind.

"Alright," he assured her. "I won't."

The relief on Alennia's face spoke volumes.

"Now go to your room and get some sleep," Dagonet told her, wiping the tears from her face with a rough thumb.

Alennia giggled thickly through her tears, "Alright Daddy," she told him impishly.

Dagonet stepped back slightly, momentarily shocked, before permitting a smile to grow on his face. "Go!" he told her.

Alennia smiled and went onto tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, before starting down the corridor.

"Alennia!" Dagonet called, and she turned, her tear-stained face expectant. "He still loves you," Dagonet told her.

If Dagonet had thought Alennia was hurting before, it was nothing to the pain in her eyes when he said those words.

"No," Alennia said, so softly it was almost discernable. "He doesn't."

Alennia wanted to block the words out, to forget she had ever heard them, but she could not, and as they replayed over and over again, the doubt grew in her heart until it was insufferable. He didn't love her, she told herself again and again: nobody who loved her would treat her so. And yet… But why would he do that to her if he loved her?

For all the pain she was in, believing that he had never loved her hurt a lot less than the growing doubt. Why? The question haunted her, long after she had returned to her room. Why would he do that to someone he loved? Why?

* * *

Dagonet watched Alennia retreat down the corridor until she turned a corner and disappeared from sight. He turned around and jumped slightly when he found Tristran standing behind him, a cold look on the scout's face.

"Tristran," Dagonet said warily.

"What's between you and Alennia?" Tristran asked bluntly, in a threatening voice.

"What's between _you_ and Alennia?" Dagonet rejoined swiftly.

"Why should I tell you?" Tristran asked dangerously. "So you can run off and comfort her again?"

"Tristran, I…" Dagonet began, but was cut off almost immediately by Tristran's scathing voice.

"I don't care what your excuse is. Keep your hands off my woman."

"Oh, so she's your woman now is she?" Dagonet retorted, finally goaded into fighting back. "Well then, why don't you start treating her like your woman, instead of making her suffer so much? Do you even have the faintest idea of how much pain you are causing her?"

"Don't talk to me of suffering!" Tristran shouted, his eyes still dead and cold, despite his growing fury. "You have no idea of what I have suffered for that woman!"

"Oh, don't worry, I can imagine how hard it was for you to talk her into going to your bed," Dagonet said in a contemptuous voice.

"You don't understand!" Tristran roared at him, and for the first time that day, emotion played in his eyes: a wild, blazing fury, coupled with the pain of a wound that went so deep that he would carry the scars to the day he died. "How can you even begin to comprehend how much I love her? I love her far too much to hurt her."

"You're hurting her now," Dagonet stated flatly, his voice unbelieving.

Tristran sighed, and seemed to diminish as his shoulders sagged and he slumped against the wall.

"She deserves so much better, so much more than anything I can offer. And do you think she could ever return to her people if they found out about me? I know she has enemies among the Woads, I would be a perfect excuse for them to hurt her."

"So you're doing it for them," Dagonet's voice was still hard and cruel.

"No!" Tristran said in a frustrated voice. "Do you think that if I told her what I am telling you, she would let me leave her?"

Slowly, very slowly, Dagonet shook his head.

"The only way I can cause her the least amount of pain is by making her believe that I never cared for her. Then she can hate me, and in time she will forget about me, and never have a second thought when she finds a man among her people, who loves her."

Dagonet was silent.

"It's killing me, Dagonet. It's killing me to see her suffer on my account. If I could take back last night, I would, and gladly. Don't you see? I am doing everything in my power to prevent her suffering." Tristran raised pained eyes to Dagonet. "What more can I do?"

"She might stay here, with you, if you explained to her. She might choose to live her life by your side," Dagonet said slowly.

"I couldn't do that to her," Tristran said softly. "Do you think she could ever truly be happy living as Vanora does? Bringing up children, cooking, cleaning, tending my wounds? She could become so much more than that. I couldn't take that from her."

Dagonet studied Tristran for a moment. "It is your choice brother. I cannot help you," and he turned and walked away, slowly and deliberately, letting Tristran know exactly what he felt of his decisions.

Tristran stared for a long time at the place Dagonet had vacated, before he leant back against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, before sliding slowly down to the base of the wall. He sat there, his knees drawn up and his head in his hands, and it was dark before he moved again.

* * *

**A/N –** Don't forget: this is a TristranOC, don't think that Dagonet's going to come into the picture as anything more than a father-figure to Alennia. Thanks to all my reviewers – I hope this will make Tristran look like slightly less of a bastard! Happy Christmas all – I will update in a week or so (hopefully!) 


	29. Lost in the Rain

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lost in the Rain**

Alennia could not sleep. She had lain awake in her room for hours, watching the shadows lengthening on the walls, and thinking of _him._ She wanted to believe that he had never loved her, but she was plagued by doubts. She cursed Dagonet a hundred times for giving her such fears, but nothing could take the words back.

With a sigh she swung her legs over the side of her bed and sat up. Moonlight shone down through the small window, illuminating a patch of floor, and Alennia sat, staring at the light, but seeing nothing.

Why? The question played over and over again in her head, haunting her and giving her no rest. Why had he left her? He couldn't really love her…could he?

Slowly she became aware of a noise. A quiet, almost indiscernible noise, and Alennia could not, for a moment, work out what it was. Then she realised. It was the sound of rain.

She sat, perfectly still, for a long time, revelling in the sound of the rain growing heavier and heavier outside. When was the last time she had felt rain on her skin? She felt like a caged animal, trapped in the Roman buildings, unable to feel the power of the weather tearing at her.

Alennia rose silently, pulling a cloak over her. She had an insatiable desire to stand in the growing storm, to feel the force with which it blew, to remember how insignificant she was against the strength of nature. On soundless feet she crossed to the door and slipped out of her room, disappearing down the empty corridors, as silent as a shadow.

When she reached the wall, she stood, her head tilted upwards, rain running down it, the fierce winds battering her body and whipping her hair and cloak backwards. And there, with nothing but the power of the storm to embrace her, she finally let the tears come.

* * *

Alennia was not the only one who could not sleep that night. Tristran paced up and down his small room, long after the fire had burnt out. Alennia's pale face haunted him, and he could feel his heart being slowly and agonisingly torn in two. What had he done?

Tristran suddenly stopped his pacing. His sharp, tracking senses had heard a soft feet pass his door. It was late into the night, and usually no one was up at that hour. Tristran waited a few seconds for the footsteps to pass, and then went to the door and opened it silently to see the retreating form of Alennia, wrapped in an all-too familiar cloak.

Suddenly Tristran was overpowered by the memory of the day he had given her that cloak. Her happy, shining face, the feeling of her body against his as they galloped across the mountainside, the warmth of the sun on his face. He bowed his head as the memory receded, leaving him alone in a cold, dark room.

He looked quickly down the corridor to where Alennia had just disappeared around a corner, and slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him, before following her down the deserted corridors.

Tristran slipped from shadow to shadow, moving silently yet quickly. Then he was struck by a sudden thought. What if she was going to Dagonet's room? He stopped in his tracks, the enormity of the thought dawning on him. Would she really do that? Would Dagonet really betray him so?

For a moment he was tempted to turn back, so that he would not have to endure the pain of seeing her go to Dagonet's door, but his fearful mind was still too loyal to Alennia to think she would do that to him, and so he moved on again.

Tristran didn't realise he was trembling until he had watched Alennia walk past Dagonet's door without even sparing it a glance. He stopped for a moment, leaning on the wall as he berated himself for doubting her so much, for doubting both of them no much, and then he drew himself up and followed her outside.

Trsitran stood at the bottom of the wall, watching Alennia at the top. She was unaware of his presence. In fact she seemed to be oblivious to everything save for the violence of the storm. It was not long before Tristran was soaked, but still he stood there, torn between returning to the warmth of his room, and going and making things right with her.

* * *

Alennia was startled from her reverie when she heard a step behind her, and spun around to find Tristran standing a few feet from her. She could not read the expression in his eyes, for they were hidden by the wild-looking braids that hung down in front of his face.

"Alennia," Tristran greeted her.

"What do you want?" Alennia asked quickly, her hands beginning to tremble. Why was he here? To mock her further? To try and get her back into his bed?

"To talk," Tristran said bluntly.

"There's nothing to talk about," Alennia said, her eyes flashing dangerously as she turned to look back out across the storm-battered plains.

Tristran moved so that he was standing beside her, his hands resting on the smooth brick as he stared out in the same direction of Alennia. They were only inches apart, and yet were separated by a vast gulf of pain and misunderstanding.

Tristran's mind was in riot, as he desperately struggled to find the words that would explain the surging emotions in his heart. He waws becoming an increasingly silent man since he had met Alennia, for words seemed irrelevant with her, and yet now he needed those words to reach out across the gulf between them. After a long time, he eventually spoke, "I'm sorry," he said simply, unable to find words to match the feelings racing around his head.

Alennia turned her head to speak to him. "You're sorry?" she said in a choked voice. "And that is meant to make everything alright?"

Tristran sighed and turned to face her. "I never meant to hurt you. I would never do that to you."

"Well you did," Alennia shot back. They stood, immobile, staring at each other for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, and then Alennia's shoulders slumped, and she seemed to diminish. She shook her head slowly, and the fight seemed to go out of her voice. "Leave me," she said wearily.

Tristran considered her for a moment, and then turned to go, his heart fighting his head every step of the way, as he wanted to make things right between them, and at the same time knew that he would make her more vulnerable than she should ever be, if he told her that he loved her. At the top of the steps his heart won, and he paused, turning back to her.

"Alennia!" he called.

She turned to regard him with pained eyes, and Tristran could see the tears running down her face, mixed in with the rain.

"I love you," Tristran said softly.

There was pause, when all that could be heard was the lonely howling of the wind. "Then why?" Alennia eventually asked in an anguished voice. "Why would you do that to me if you loved me?"

Tristran bowed his head for a moment, and when he raised his eyes to her face again, Alennia could, for the first time, see emotion in his eyes: a deep fear, masked in pain and sorrow. "Because I could not let you throw your life away for my sake," he said in a hoarse voice.

"I would have followed you to the ends of the earth," Alennia told him fiercely.

"I know. I could not let you do that to yourself. You deserve so much better than anything I can offer," Tristran bowed his head once more, so that Alennia could not see the pain that telling her the truth was causing him.

There was silence, and for a moment, Tristran thought that Alennia was not going to reply. Then a small, soft hand brushed down his cheek and under his chin, and gently raised his head so that he was looking into her eyes.

"It is my decision alone," she told him softly.

"Don't do this," Tristran whispered softly, but without conviction. He was a slave to her touch, and knew, in that moment, that there was nothing but her. He raised one large, rough hand to take her small one, and cradled it to his cheek. The other hand snaked around the back of her waist, pulling her towards, and there lips met, not with the fiery passion that they had previously, but softly, gently, as if the moment was so fragile it could be lost in a second.

Alennia twined her arm around the back of his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Tristran hid his own face in her hair, breathing in the deep scent that was Alennia's and Alennia's alone. How long they stood there, neither knew, nor cared. They were lost, drowning in a sea of pleasure and pain, no longer caring about anything, save the one they were holding.

Finally they pulled apart, and just stood, drowning in the other's eyes. For the first time in a long while, they hid nothing from the other, but instead let every hope and every fear shine brightly. And in that moment, they were both more vulnerable than they had ever been in their lives. Eventually Tristran sighed and looked down.

"You're still going then?" it was not much of a question, for he already knew the answer.

"I'm sorry," Alennia said softly. "I have to go back to my people."

Tristran nodded slowly, pulling Alennia back into his embrace. "Never forget me," he whispered fiercely.

"I could not," Alennia said softly, sighing softly. Tristran wrapped his arms back around her, memorising every curve of her skin, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her voice, and the two stood there, twined together, silhouetted on the wall as the sun began to rise to herald their parting.

* * *

**A/N -** Well? What did you think? I couldn't bear to separate them anymore! I'm not sure about the last bit - I honestly didn't know what on earth they were going to do & talk about once they had got back inside, so that was something of an ad lib, seeing as how I had absolutely no idea what was going to go there, and haven't come to any useful conclusions for at least the last month, when I first worked out their reconciliation. Anyway, if you guys have any bright ideas, please, please tell me, and I will be only too happy to re-write it – in fact, I would be thrilled if someone with more than the scrap of imagination that I have comes up with a good idea. 


	30. I'll Always Look Back

**Chapter Thirty: I'll Always Look Back As I Walk Away**

Alennia felt very calm, almost detached from her body, throughout the farewells. Dagonet had hugged her, saying, "Take care of yourself lass." Lancelot had slapped her back and cracked a joke. Arthur had kissed her hand: always a perfect gentleman. The others were kind and sweet to her, and a remote part of Alennia's mind noted that it was well that she did not feel fully conscious, or she would have no doubt been fighting to keep tears at bay. It was not that she did not care for the knights: she did, but some protective mechanism in her heart had taken over, to stop her from being hurt more than she already was.

Her eyes hardly left Tristran, and his never left her face. It was if both were trying to memorise the other, for all the lonely nights to come. Alennia knew, however, that Tristran's image was scorched into her heart, so that she would carry him with her forever. The thought both comforted and frightened her. Tristran had offered to ride with her from the fort to the wall, so that they would have at least a bit of privacy for their goodbyes, and so they set off, leaving the other knights behind at the fort.

Alennia could feel Dagonet's eyes watching her and Tristran as they walked out together. She hardly knew the man, so why did it feel as if she was loosing a father alll over again? She and Tristran rode in silence along the drive, both wanting to say what they felt, but neither able to put their thoughts into words. The long path to the wall seemed far too short to Alennia, who wanted it to go on forever, and if she had one wish, it would be to stretch the road out into eternity, so that she would never have to leave her lover's side. The dry, detached part of her mind told her that she was being silly – she was the one who had wanted to leave, and so she had no business getting all misty-eyed and romantic over their parting.

But the road did end, far too soon, and they both dismounted in front of the gate, that was slowly creaking open. They stood, several feet away from each other, Alennia looking at her feet, and Tristran looking nervously at Alennia's face, both unsure of what to say, of how to act.

Suddenly Tristran swore, and, covering the distance between them in two great strides, kissed Alennia fiercely. She saw fireworks explode before her eyes and felt the ground shake under her feet, just as it had when he had first kissed her. She returned the kiss hungrily, sliding her arms around the back of his neck and twining her hands into his hair, longing for the kiss to last forever.

But nothing lasts forever, and when they parted, both breathing raggedly, Tristran could see tears standing out in Alennia's eyes. There was nothing to be said that had not been said the night before, and besides, Alennia was not sure that she could keep herself from crying if she spoke, so she swung onto her horse: a gift from Arthur, fighting to keep her emotions from boiling up.

Alennia moved her horse forwards into a walk, unable to even look at Tristran. The soldiers above the gate were silent as they watched the parting, wondering in their hearts how so much pain and so much grief could come from two humans.

"Alennia!" Tristran called in a hoarse voice, as Alennia passed under the arch of the gate. She pulled her horse to a halt and turned back, her face wracked with pain. "I love you," Tristran managed to say.

Alennia held his gaze for a moment, and yet, like when they first met, that moment seemed to stretch into eternity, as they read a world of hopes and fears in the other's eyes. Finally Alennia tore her gaze from his, wheeling her horse around, and moving off at a canter across the open plains before the wall.

Tristran stood, immobile for a moment, until she disappeared: blocked from his sight by the wall, and then, spurred into action, he ran up the rough stone steps, two at a time, to the walkway along the top of the wall, where he stood, his hands clenched into fists as they rested on the top of the stone, watching the diminishing form of Alennia until she was out of sight.

But still he stood there, long after Alennia had gone, staring out across the grassland, his heart heavy, and his mind oblivious to all around him.

* * *

Alennia rode briskly all day. She had a good, fit horse, who did not tire at the pace, and Alennia was glad of that, for she felt a pressing need to put as much distance between her and Tristran as possible, not because she wanted to be away from him: in fact it was the opposite. She knew that if she did not get as far away from him quickly, he resolve would burn out, and she would find herself returning to the warmth and safety of his arms.

She rode at a steady canter for most of the day. To begin with, she scarcely saw what was around her, simply following the well-known route instinctively, but soon she began to surface from her brooding thoughts, and she began to look about her as she rode. It was early winter, and a thin layer of snow coated the landscape. The sun warmed her back, and the cool, fresh air was such a change from the stuffiness of the Roman fort, that Alennia could not help but notice it.

This was her home, she thought fiercely. This was where she belonged: in the untamed lands of the north, not in the submissive southern country, where animals fled from humans, and the Romans ruled. And as she rode, Alennia began to dare to believe, for the first time, that she had made the right decision.

And yet she was horribly aware of how alone she was. The lack of Tristran's reassuring presence weighed heavily on her mind. She knew that she wasn't supposed to care: that she wasn't supposed to live her life wishing he was there beside her. She was not supposed to wonder where he was, or what he was doing, but she found that she could not help herself. She loved him; although she would not dare to admit it to anyone save herself. She loved him, no matter how ridiculous it was, and the knowledge both burdened her heart, and at the same time, gave her soul wings to rise and fly.

By the time Alennia settled down for the night, in a small clearing in the vast forests of the north, she was feeling a lot happier than she had been in a long time. She sat in front of the fire, gazing into it, unseeing, simply revelling in its warmth on her face, in the feeling of the cool night air, and the sounds of the forest.

She was back where she belonged. Tomorrow she would see Merlin, and soon she would be fighting the Saxons again. The thought of that made Alennia smile: she had not tasted the fierce passion of battle for what seemed like an age, although in reality it was but a few months.

And Tristran loved her. Well, with that in her mind, how could anything ever go wrong? Yes, it hurt to be away from him, but she knew that he would be there when it mattered. She was not built for life in a Roman garrison; he was not able to live among the Woads. And, Alennia admitted to herself, neither were suited to married life. But for some strange reason, that did not trouble her. She loved him, and he loved her. And the knowledge of that was far greater than any distance or obstacle between them.

When she slept that night, she dreamt of Armelle. The old woman was smiling, laughing at her, for some reason that Alennia did not know. Usually when Alennia dreamed of the dead, she woke screaming, or in a cold sweat, but this night the dream soothed and calmed her. It was reassuring to know that Armelle was with her, and Alennia slept deeply.

* * *

Tristran did not sleep well on the night after Alennia left. He tossed and turned, waiting impatiently for sleep to come; haunted by images of the woman he loved. He had been restless all day: stalking about in a dark mood, and snapping to anyone who tried to talk to him. He knew that he was being ridiculous, but the bad mood persisted, and he could not bring himself to draw himself out of it.

He wanted her, so badly. He wanted to feel the soft touch of her skin on his, to breath in the deep scent that was hers and hers alone, to hear the sound of her voice in his ears. He had let her go. Why? His troubled mind asked over and over again. Why had he let go of the only thing that he cared about, the only thing that mattered?

He swore angrily at himself, giving up the pretence of sleep, and sitting up, pulling his boots on. He didn't know where he was going, but anything had to be better than trying to sleep, and being constantly reminded of the absence of her warm body beside his.

As he sat there, pulling a shirt over his head, an awful thought came to him. He had let Alennia go, on her own, into a country full of Roman and Sarmatian-hating people. Tristran knew, only too well, that Alennia had enemies. Enemies that would do anything to get rid of her, so that they would not be forced to yield their positions of power to her. Tristran knew how powerful she had been before the final battle with the Saxons, though he was not sure if she herself knew it. And now he had just let her walk into enemy territory, alone, unguarded. Icy fear gripped his heart, as he thought of her, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the danger that she was in.

* * *

**A/N –** Well, I'm coming up to the end, and I hope you won't be disappointed. I don't really know what to say about this chapter, except that Alennia wasn't meant to come over as being so happy to be away from Tristran, so don't think that she wants to be away from him. Well, I hope you liked the chapter – comments appreciated, as ever! 


	31. No One But You

**A/N –** I've decided to do my author's note at the beginning this time, because I do not want to spoil the end with my rambling. Ok, so this was meant to be the last chapter, but in a flash of inspiration more like a desperate need for some way of finishing this off I have decided to do another 2 chapters. I think. though any plans I make are likely to change, so don't hold me to that one. 

What was I saying? Alright – thanks to everyone who reviewed – I've just realised that I've been blocking anonymous reviews, so if you aren't registered or whatever and haven't been able to review so far, you can now! Aren't you the lucky ones? grins evilly

Anyway, enjoy (I hope that's not the right word, but you decide when you've finished) this over-long chapter, and bear in mind that THIS IS NOT THE END! Got that? Alright – here you go :D

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One: No One But You**

Arthur refilled his cup with wine and took a deep drink from it, before setting it back down on the table and rubbing his red eyes wearily. It was late at night; in fact, it was probably the early hours of the morning. Arthur looked back at the tablets strewn out across the table in front of him, and sighed. The dancing light of the candles tired his eyes, making the words blur and merge together.

"You should get some sleep," a familiar voice came from the doorway. Arthur glanced up to see Dagonet leaning against the doorframe, a wine cup in one hand.

"You always say that," Arthur commented, looking back down at the work.

Dagonet crossed into the room, and sat down, eyeing Arthur critically. "That's because I always mean it," he told his commander.

Arthur looked up at his old friend, his face looking ten years older. "Work needs doing," he pointed out.

Dagonet did not comment, but filled up his cup again. The two men sat in an amiable silence, Arthur working, Dagonet staring thoughtfully across the room.

Suddenly both men looked up sharply at the same time. None but a knight of seven years would have been so alert so late at night, but the two men were used to living in a state of perpetual vigilance, and so they heard the almost inaudible sound of a man passing the door.

They rose, nothing needing to be said, and moved silently to the doorway, where they looked out on the retreating form of Tristran. Arthur glanced at Dagonet and sighed. Both men knew where the scout was heading: it was hard not to realise, for Tristran was dressed in his fighting gear: his bow slung over his back, and his body bristling with weapons.

"Alennia?" Arthur asked Dagonet, who nodded. "I better go and see he gets to no harm I suppose," Arthur said with a small grimace.

"I'll go," Dagonet stated.

Arthur looked up quickly at the big knight, relief evident in his eyes, "Are you sure?" he asked quickly.

"If you promise me you'll go and get some sleep," Dagonet told him.

Arthur grinned quickly, a tight, thankful grin, and nodded. "Make sure he doesn't see you," he told Dagonet. "You know what he can be like."

Dagonet nodded, already on his way out.

"Stay out of sight," Arthur warned him, as Dagonet headed out the door, towards the stables.

* * *

Alennia woke to the knowledge that something was wrong. It was still dark, but a grey light was beginning to creep across the world, heralding the dawn. The previous night's fire had burnt out, and thick dew coated the grass, giving her an unpleasant, damp feeling.

Alennia tossed her blankets off, trying to rearrange her thoughts, and separate dream from reality. She looked around carefully, trying to work out what had woken her. There was something wrong about the campsite, although she could not quite place it.

Her heart was racing, and she could feel her hands shaking slightly as she peered into the dark trees around her. Suddenly she realised what was wrong. Her horse had gone. Her heart, if it was possible, pounded faster and harder, and Alennia desperately fumbled for the hunting knives in her belt. She was just drawing these when it began.

An arrow sped out of the dark woods, embedding itself in her upper arm. With a cry of pain, Alennia dropped the knife that she had clasped in that hand. As if her cry had been a signal, men suddenly began to melt out of the trees, surrounding her. She recognised most of them: chiefs and heads the various tribes, power-hungry men who did not flinch when removing something that lay between them and their goals.

Alennia spun around wildly, still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and analyse the situation. There were about twenty or thirty men, all heavily armed, all with threatening expressions on their faces, and yet they hung back, as if waiting for something.

Then she saw a man advancing: a man a head taller than any other. He cut a swathe through the others, a leer on his face. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair, and a face that would be handsome if it were not for the permanent sneer. This was a man Alennia knew well: they had had many run-ins when she had worked for Merlin, and she knew that he was hungry for Merlin's place.

"Carden," she greeted him coldly, trying to mask the fear and pain that she felt. Her arm was throbbing painfully, and blood flowed freely from the wound, though Alennia refused to show any weakness by binding it.

"Alennia," the man named Carden said with a mocking little bow. "How wonderful to see you again," he continued, his voice oozing with sarcasm and derision.

"The pleasure is all mine," Alennia could hardly keep the contempt from her voice.

"Oh I doubt that," Carden told her. "I am sure I shall get some pleasure from our meeting today." He started walking, circling her, and Alennia moved with him, never taking her eyes off him. "You see, there is something I feel I should discuss with you," he told her, his voice civil, as if he were only discussing the weather. "There have been…rumours, that you have been spending time with a certain Sarmatian knight."

Alennia felt her heart grow cold as the words echoed around her mind. 'Please no,' she begged silently. 'Please let nothing have happened to Tristran.' But she said nothing, simply staring with an unwavering gaze of hatred at the man who was capable of tearing her life apart.

"Now these rumours are very unfortunate for you," Carden was continuing.

In her mind, Alennia was still begging with whatever God was listening, that Tristran be safe – even surrounded by thirty heavily-armed men, her thoughts were not for her own safety.

"For it puts you in a rather difficult position," Carden continued. He suddenly moved towards her, and it too all of Alennia's willpower to keep from stumbling backwards and away from him. "It puts you in the position of a traitor," she hissed, his face right in hers.

Alennia did not let her expression change. It had taken years to perfect the blank mask that she wore now, but inside, she was shaking. To call her a traitor before all these men meant only one thing: she would not be leaving the clearing. Not alive at any rate.

Carden stepped backwards, so that he stood a couple of feet away from her, and his voice no longer sounded anything near to civil. "Do you know what the punishment is for traitors?" he asked her.

Alennia said nothing.

"Death," Carden stated.

Alennia said nothing.

"Will you not deny that you are a traitor?"

Alennia said nothing. It was pointless now. Carden was simply stirring the crowd up, anything she said would be twisted around to sound like an admission, and Alennia would not give them that satisfaction.

She took long, deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves as she shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. Carden turned back to her, and their eyes met. And in his eyes, Alennia saw her death.

Carden moved quickly, faster than Alennia would have given him credit with. He raised a dagger, and plunged it into Alennia's flesh, with a cry of 'Traitor!' that sent the birds bursting from the trees in fright.

The knife had hit Alennia in her left shoulder: not at the mark it was aimed for, which was the base of her neck, but it was good enough, and Carden stepped back, satisfied, as the Woads, unleashed, poured towards her, stabbing, kicking, hitting, scratching her skin.

Alennia never took her eyes off Carden, even as her legs gave way beneath her, and she sank silently to the ground, stained with her own blood. She did not cry out, or fight back, but simply locked her eyes onto the face of the man who had arranged her death, so that she could carry her grudge to the underworld.

Suprisingly, Alennia noticed that there was no pain, but her limbs wouldn't work, and so she lay helpless, not even trying to shield her face from the blows that rained down on her. And her eyes rested on Carden, watching him with an icy calm that struck fear into the very depths of his soul.

* * *

Tristran rode like a devil through the night – he kept his horse at a fast gallop, his mind oblivious to all around him. Suddenly he heard noises through the trees up ahead, and his heart turned cold, for it was the sound of a lynch mob.

He burst into the clearing, screaming with pure rage and hatred. The Woads took one look at him, and scattered, but Tristran paid them no heed. He could see nothing but the broken body, lying in a pool of blood.

Somehow he got down from his horse, though he had no memory of it, and the next minute he was at her side. Alennia blinked, the movement an obvious effort to her, and smiled up at Tristran.

"You came," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Tristran realised he was shaking, and sank to his knees beside her. Alennia was covered in multiple stab wounds, and rivulets of blood streamed down her body. One arm lay at an impossible angle, and bruises were already beginning to appear on the surface of her once beautiful skin.

"It's alright," Alennia said, seeing his face. "It's alright."

Tristran reached out one shaking hand, and touched her cheek. Alennia smiled gently up at him, trying to give him some of the calm that filled her.

"I'll get you back to the wall," Tristran said suddenly. "Dagonet will be able to treat you."

"Tristran," Alennia managed to say, though her voice was fading fast. "No. It is too late for me."

Tristran shook his head mutely. His mind was unable to accept what he was seeing: the one woman in the whole world who mattered more than life itself, dying, because of him. Because of _him._ It was his fault. No matter how he tried to twist and turn, he could not escape from the fact that she had died because of him, because of his love. He had, effectively, signed her death warrant, and yet she smiled up at him, strangely serene.

"It's alright," Alennia repeated. "I've lived my life. My time is up."

Tristran shook his head again, tears running down his face.

"Don't cry for me," Alennia told him. "For tonight I will be free."

Tristran's whole body was shaking as he sobbed. Alennia, looking up into the face of the man she loved, suddenly realised something. She had never told him how she felt. Not in all the years that they had known each other, not even when they parted the previous day.

"Tristran," she said softly. "I love you."

Tristran suddenly realised that this was it. She was going where he could not follow, and he was damned if he would sit back and let it happen.

"No!" he said, his voice shaking angrily. "No. You're going to live. You're going to grow up and die an old woman."

"Ssh," Alennia told him, and with an immense effort, brought one hand up to touch his cheek, wet with tears. "I have accepted this, Tristran. Do the same."

Tristran shook his head wordlessly, but he could see the barely disguised pain in Alennia's face.

"Hold me," she whispered. "It's so very cold."

Tristran scooped her body up, cradling it to his, unconscious of the blood seeping into his clothes. Alennia rested her face against his chest, breathing slowly. The pain, which she had not felt earlier, was beginning to slowly creep through her body. She felt the warmth of Tristran's body on her cheek, and knew that he was weeping for her.

And yet she was strangely happy. She realised now, why Armelle had been laughing. As the pain began to engulf her: to block out the light and sound, only one thought was in her mind. She remembered a distant battlefield, where her last wish before potential death, had been that she wanted to die lying in his arms. Now, she knew, that the Gods had granted her that last wish.

Tristran felt the body go limp in his arms. He stared blindly at her face, whispering her name in a hoarse voice, but she didn't answer. Never again would words pass those lips. Never again would those eyes flash with fire as she teased him. Never again.


	32. Walk, Don't Look Back

**A/N – **Thank you so much for all your reviews! This is (definitely) the penultimate chapter, and while I know it's not as good as the last chapter (the last chapter set a bit of a high standard for me to live up to, I think) I hope you enjoy it all the same.

I'm sorry to all of you who were living on the hope that Alennia was not dead. She is. But things will get better – maybe not in this chapter, but it won't end too sad, well, if I write it right then it won't! Anyway – on with the chapter:

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two – Walk, Don't Look Back**

Dagonet stood, hidden in the trees on the outskirts of the clearing, his expression unreadable as he watched the scout break down. He could not move, but could only stand there – helpless. She was dead, and now the man who had loved her, and who loved her still, was dying inside. And there was nothing Dagonet could do.

Suddenly, he saw Tristran move. The scout lifted his grief-ravaged face, and stared directly but unseeing, at Dagonet. Dagonet quailed for a moment at the hatred in Tristran's wild eyes, but then realised that the scout had not seen him. He did not seem to see anything as he rose, no longer looking at Alennia's body. He stared around the clearing for a moment, his eyes red from crying, but dry now. The grief had gone, but in its place was a hatred far greater than anything Dagonet had ever seen.

The scout drew his blades, slowly, firmly, and the slow scraping sound as the metal slid from the scabbard made the hairs on the back of Dagonet's neck rise. Tristran looked around the clearing for one last time, before turning abruptly, and setting off at a slow, steady run.

Dagonet hesitated for a moment, his sudden fear of the man that the scout had become, almost matching his grief for Alennia, but then he gave in, and ran into the clearing, dropping down at Alennia's side. The woman who had called him father, lay, a broken mass of blood and flesh, barely resembling the beautiful, feisty woman he had known and loved.

He brushed her hair off her face, and looked down at her peaceful face for a moment, before he slumped forwards over her body, burying his face in his hands. Slowly, the sun rose, illuminating the clearing with fiery golden rays: a sunrise so ironically full of hope and life beside the scene of death and grief.

* * *

It was fully light before Dagonet raised his face once more. His face was expressionless, and there was not one sign of grief on his face. 'Why could he not cry?' he asked himself. 'Why could he not let his grief out like any normal person?' And yet it had always been thus: Dagonet had not wept since he had left his home five years earlier, and even now he could find no tears.

Slowly he arranged Alennia's body, wiping some of the dried blood from her cheek, and moving her broken limbs to more normal angles. He supposed her should bury her, or burn her, but he was yet too afraid of the rage that he had seen in Tristran's eyes to risk doing it without him. And so he kept a silent vigil over the body, waiting for the return of Tristran.

* * *

Tristran ran, with no thought in his mind but vengeance. He would find the men who had killed Alennia, and he would kill them. As love had once given him wings, now hatred gave him a strength he did not know he possessed, and he chased the Woads, with no indication of weariness. He ran them down, one by one, playing with them, and drawing out their deaths, so that they knew, in their last moment of this earth, why they died.

It was dusk by the time Tristran caught up with the last one. The man had found a horse, but had pushed it too fast from fear, and the horse had tired quickly. Tristran felt no fatigue, and whereas his opponent was sweating and pale, terrified of the man who had calmly cut his companions down one at a time, Tristran still felt the same overpowering rage he had at dawn that moment.

The last of the Woads to fall to Tristran's blade was a tall man – almost a head higher than Tristran, with a muscular body, and dark hair, and at any other time, Tristran would have considered his a decent opponent.

Carden had heard tales of Tristran's ferocity in battle, but nothing prepared him for the sheer rage with which Tristran fought. He had cut Carden's horse's legs from under it, and attacked before he had even had time to rise after his fall. Tristran advanced on the cowering man with short, brutal overhead strokes, and a strength that Carden had never fought against before.

And though Tristran had a hundred chances to finish the match, he did not. Every time a gap opened in Carden's defence, Tristran would nock him with his blade, nothing more, until Carden was covered in long, shallow cuts, and was bleeding profusely.

Eventually Carden's reactions grew to slow to even merit fighting back. He feebly tried to bring his blade up to meet Tristran's stroke, but Tristran flicked the sword aside scornfully, and brought his blade up to rest on Carden's throat.

There was nothing but absolute terror in the tall man's eyes as he gazed into the face of death. Tristran did not move, simply revelling in the look of fear in the man's eyes, but then he whispered one word, as he slid the blade slowly and deliberately into Carden's neck.

Carden tried to scream out, but Tristran neatly severed his vocal chords, and there was a moment, when his eyes bulged and his face went grey, before his body went limp, and he slid off the sword. The last word he had heard on this earth had been the name of the woman he had killed.

Tristran stood, immobile, for a long time after Carden had died, staring off into the distance somewhere. It was done. He had got revenge for Alennia. But instead of an elated feeling, or even a feeling of peace, there was nothing but an emptiness in his heart: an emptiness that none could fill, save Alennia.

Slowly he came to. When he saw the bloody mess that had been Carden his face blanched, and he threw up. He had never before fought so cruelly, and though he was a hardened warrior, who had seen thousands of atrocities before; nothing could prepare him for seeing his own handiwork.

When his stomach had finally finished heaving, Tristran turned away from the body, very deliberately avoiding it. He cleaned his sword off, suddenly feeling very weary, and looked up at the sky. It was beginning to grow dark, and he had left Alennia's body unattended.

Slowly, for exhaustion had finally set in, he started off at a lolloping run, back to her body, leaving the remains of a Woad, mangled beyond recognition, on the ground for the beasts to eat.

* * *

Tristran stood in silence, watching the fire grow as it consumed his beloved's body. He had done all he could for her: cleaned her body, smoothed her hair down, and arranged her with her weapons around her, like warriors of old.

He did not know what she had believed in, and having no real beliefs himself, he found himself wanting, needing for something to hang onto. Some assurance that she was at peace. He did not even know if her people burned their dead, and though he could do no more for her, he felt an awful helplessness as he watched her body burn.

He wracked his mind, trying to find the moment when he had gone wrong. Would he have saved her if he had not taken so long tacking his horse up? Or if he had left earlier? Or perhaps he should never have let her go. But no matter how he tried to lay the blame, it was upon his own back that it rested.

Alennia was dead, and Tristran had been the one to cause that death.

Tristran bowed his head, blotting out the heat of the fire on his face, and closed his eyes. He was not a religious man, and had never prayed, but he now formed a thought in his mind, sending it to whichever merciful God could hear his feeble attempt at prayer.

'Please,' he thought desperately. 'Please let her be happy where she it. Please let her be at peace.'

He stood there all night, standing a silent vigil for her while she burned, and at dawn, when the fire had burnt out, and only warm ashes remained, he turned from the clearing, and left, never again looking back at the few precious months of heaven that she had brought him.


	33. Across the River

**A/N – **well, this is it. the final chapter. It's not that long, I know, but I hope you still enjoy it. I'm planning a fanfic about Lucan, post-movie, so please do come and review that when it's up – it could be a while before I get it done though, as I'm doing a million things at the moment – you know how it is. I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed my work, and especially to MedievalWarriorPrincess for being so helpful and full of good ideas when writer's block seemed to set in! 

Anyway, here you go – the final instalment of In Your Arms. I hope you enjoy it, and that you understand what I mean when I said it would be a happy ending!

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three – Across the River**

_Ten Years Later_

Tristran stood, swaying slightly as his legs debated whether to hold him, or give up and let him fall. He felt a pang of regret, not from knowing that the end had come, but from being bettered in a sword-match by a Saxon. A Saxon who had now stolen his own sword.

He looked up at the sky, and saw a hawk circling through the drifting smoke. His hawk. He smiled briefly at the sight: she had always been there for him, and it seems that she was not going to abandon him now. 'Sorry love,' he thought, 'it is I who must abandon you now.'

The Saxon suddenly spun around, slicing his great sword down across Tristran's chest, and Tristran felt himself falling backwards. He landed on the damp earth, still looking up at the sky. The pain ebbed and flowed through his body, but he gave little heed to it. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. He was dying.

This thought was strangely comforting. All of the others fought against death, as had Tristran, but now it was happening, he was glad of it. He supposed he should be glad that he was dying a free man, in a battle of his own choosing, but that concerned him little. Why should he want his freedom anyway? There was no reason for living with a broken heart.

Alennia, ah, Alennia. He saw her, for the first time in years, he saw her so clearly in his mind, sitting, hunched up in front of the fire in the cave, the blanket around her shoulders, and her wet hazel hair curling about her shoulders.

And suddenly, he knew he would be with her soon. In all the years since her death he had not been able to convince himself that there was an afterlife, but as the world around him faded and dimmed, Tristran was filled with a calm beyond anything he had know before, with the knowledge that soon, he would be with her.

Tristran found himself beside a dark, strong-flowing river. He tried to make out the shore as he crossed, and as he drew closer he could see a woman standing on the far bank, with her back to him. Hazel coloured hair curled down over a deep blue gown, and as he stepped onto the bank the woman turned, a soft smile on her face.

"I've been waiting for you," she told him softly, almost shyly. Her face was young, and as beautiful as the moment that Tristran had first beheld it.

Suddenly he moved forwards, covering the distance between them in two huge strides, and lifted her up, swinging her slender body around to the sound of her ringing laughter.

Slowly he set her down, studying her face, and a small smile began to creep onto his face, as he pushed a lock of hair back off her face, and bent his head down to kiss her. Alennia wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, curling her fingers into his hair as she always had done, and both were lost in a thousand memories that the kiss evoked.

When they parted, Alennia leant her head against Tristran's chest, and he rested his head on top of hers, wrapping his strong hands around her waist and holding her safe. They stood still, inhaling the other's scent as they drowned in a world of content. And then the light seemed to fade, and the image grew fainter, until all that was left was the sound of a flowing river.


End file.
